Alms and Vagabonds: Buddhist Temples and Popular Patronage in Medieval Japan 9780824846664

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BUDDHIST T E M P L E S AND POPULAR P A T R O N A G E IN M E D I E V A L J A P A N

Janet R. Goodwin

m U N I V E R S I T Y OF H A W A I I P R E S S HONOLULU

© 1994 University of Hawaii Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 94 95 96 97 98 99

5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Goodwin, Janet R . , 1939Alms and Vagabonds: Buddhist temples and popular patronage in medieval J a p a n / Janet R . Goodwin, p. cm. ISBN 0-8248-1547-5 1. Buddhist temple finance—Japan. 2. Buddhist giving. 3. Buddhism—Japan—History—1185-1600. I. Title. BQ5136.3 .J3G66 1994 294.3'65'09520902—dc20 93-31406 CIP University of Hawaii Press books are printed on acid-free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources

Designed by Paula

Newcomb

Contents

Acknowledgments

vii

ONE

Introduction: The Kamakura Buddhist Transformation 1 TWO

Before Kamakura: Early Kanjin Campaigns

21

THREE

Alms for Kasagi Temple 46 FOUR

Haifa Penny or a Scrap of Wood: Chogen and the Campaign for Todaiji 67 FIVE

Building Bridges and Saving Souls six Constructing the Buddhist Law Notes Glossary

153 159

Select Bibliography Index

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173

163

107 142

MEDIEVAL JAPAN

1. Tsushima 2. Iki KYÜSHÜ 3. Hizen 4. Chikuzen 5. Buzen 6. Chikugo 7. Bungo 8. Higo 9. Hyuga 10. Satsuma 11. Ösumi SHIKOKU 12. lyo 13. Sanuki 14. Tosa 15. Awa HONSHU 16. Nagato 17. S u o 18. Iwami 19. Aki 20. Izumo 21. Bingo 22. Höki 23. Bitchü 24. Inaba 25. Mimasaka 26. Bizen 27. Tajima 28. Harima 29. Awaji 30. Tango 31.Tanba 32. Settsu 33. Izumi 34. Kawachi 35. Kii 36. Yamato 37. Wakasa 38. Yamashiro 39. Ömi 40. Iga 41. Ise 42. Shima 43. Echizen 44. Mino 45. Owari 46. Mikawa 47. Nolo 48. Kaga 49. Etchu 50. Hida 51. Shinano 52. Tötömi 53. Suruga 54. Kai 55. Sagami 56.1 zu 57. S a d o 58. Echigo 59. Közuke 60. Musashi 61.Dewa 62. Mutsu 63. Shimotsuke 64. Hitachi 65. Shimösa 66. Kazusa 67. Awa

Aki (19) Awa (Honshu) (67) Awa(Shikoku)(15) Awaji (29) Bingo (21) Bitchu (23) Bizen (26) Bungo (7) Buzen (5) Chikugo (6) Chikuzen (4) Dewa(61) Echigo (58) Echizen (43) Etchu (49) Harima (28) Hida (50) Higo (8) Hitachi (64) Hizen (3) Höki (22) Hyüga (9) tga (40) Iki (2) Inaba (24) Ise (41) Iwami (18) lyo (12) Izu (56) Izumi (33) Izumo (20) Kaga (48) Kai (54) Kawachi (34) Kazusa (66) Kii (35) Közuke(59) Mikawa (46) Mimasaka (25) Mino (44) Musashi (60) Mutsu (62) Nagato (16) Noto (47) Ömi (39) Ösumi (11) Owari (45) S a d o (57) Sagami (55) Sanuki (13) Satsuma (10) Settsu (32) Shima (42) Shimösa (65) Shimotsuke (63) Shinano (51) S u ö (17) Suruga (53) Tajima (27) Tanba(31) Tango(30) Tötömi (52) Tosa (14) Tsushima (1) Wakasa (37) Yamashiro (38) Yamato (36)

55jKamakura

Kasagi

Acknowledgments

This book would not have been possible without the help and encouragement of many teachers, friends, and colleagues. The work had its genesis during my graduate studies at the University of California at Berkeley, when Delmer Brown piqued my curiosity about Kamakura Buddhism and urged me to study the topic further. The book developed in a somewhat different direction from the dissertation that I completed under his supervision, but I remain beholden to Professor Brown for rigorous scholarly training and sympathetic support during and after my graduate years. I am also grateful to Peter Nosco, my friend and colleague at the University of Southern California, for constant encouragement while I was writing the book and waiting for a decision on publication, for a critical reading of the manuscript, and for invaluable advice on the publication process. Others who were both keen critics and supporters were Bruce Coats, Hosea Hirata, Stanleigh Jones, Michele Marra, Lynne Miyake, Samuel Yamashita, and Eri Yasuhara. Over many a glass of beer and order of pizza, my friends and colleagues in Los Angeles helped me to evaluate the manuscript and shared with me their own research on Japanese history and literature. Britten Dean of California State University, Stanislaus, one of my earliest teachers of Asian history, provided valuable advice on one of the articles that became a chapter of this book. I also wish to express my appreciation to the two anonymous readers for the University of Hawaii Press, for their constructive analyses of the manuscript; to Patricia Crosby, for being a congenial and encouraging editor; and to J o h n Griswold and Jacques Vidal, for their assistance in producing the map that appears in the book. Earlier versions of some portions of this book appeared in the Journal ofAsian Studies, Monumento Nipponica, and the Japanese Journal of Religious Studies (see the bibliography for citations). I express my appreciation to the editors of these journals for permission to use this material.

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Vili

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am also grateful to my parents, W. E. and Ruth Durstine, for teaching me the value of education and intellectual achievement, and for always providing me with unconditional support. My husband, J i m Goodwin, who nagged me to finish the book, labored over the map, and made sure that all necessary computers and printers were in working order, has been my best friend, my keenest critic, and my strongest supporter. It is to J i m and to my parents that this book is dedicated. University of Aizu Aizu-Wakamatsu, J a p a n

CM INTRODUCTION: T H E KAMAKURA BUDDHIST TRANSFORMATION

In the year 1250 the monks of Taimyoji, a temple in the remote Kyushu province of Osumi, sought the help of the Buddhist faithful to restore the temple's main worship hall. In a written appeal for donations, the monks lamented: " T h e roof tiles are riddled with holes and rain pours in through the ceiling. . . . The walls have crumbled, and the wind chills us." For assistance in their project, they turned to masses of lay believers, who were asked to support the temple in any small way that they could: "Even if you donate only a scrap of paper or a half-penny, this is our hope: that specks of dust will accumulate to form a mountain. Even if you donate only a small tool or a scrap of wood, this is our prayer: that dewdrops will form an ocean" (Takeuchi 1971-1991, 10:171-172 [doc. 7221]). Like monks of many temples in J a p a n in the Kamakura period (1185-1333), those of Taimyoji sought help through a kanjin campaign, a drive for contributions from the general public. Donations were sought from all levels of society, and the Taimyoji monks' emphasis on the cumulative value of many small gifts was repeated time and time again in similar efforts by other temples. The mass appeal of such kanjin campaigns suited the spirit of outreach and evangelism that characterized Buddhism of the Kamakura age.' Kanjin campaigns became one of the vehicles by which Buddhist monks spread their teachings to the general populace. Acting as preachers as well as fundraisers, solicitors traveled highways and haunted urban marketplaces, exhorting potential donors with promises of rebirth in paradise. Donations supported temple construction, religious services, and the making of sacred images;

1

2

INTRODUCTION

charity to lepers and other outcasts; and public works projects such as roads, bridges, and irrigation systems. Activities funded by kanjin campaigns made religious institutions and their teachings important factors in the lives of all Japanese. Bridges and roads not only served the public welfare, they also conveyed the idea of Buddhist compassion for all people; temples and pagodas became constant reminders of the dominance of Buddhist institutions in both religious and secular life. Though public campaigns for donations were conducted occasionally in the Nara period (710-794) and somewhat more frequently throughout the Heian period (794-1185), they increased in frequency at the end of the eleventh century. Thereafter, kanjin campaigns became a regular means of temple fundraising, expanding in scope and obtaining recognition and assistance from state authorities. Kanjin campaigns, in short, took on new forms and public significance in the late Heian and Kamakura ages, a period generally characterized as one of transformation in Japanese Buddhism as a whole. This phenomenon is called " K a m a k u r a Buddhism." The term embraces a variety of developments in Buddhist institutions, teachings, and practices in the late Heian and Kamakura periods and is often used to denote a radically different religious system from its predecessors in the classical Nara and early Heian ages. In the light of recent research, which I will discuss later in this chapter, it seems unreasonable to argue for an abrupt break with the past. Yet there are significant differences in two areas: the relationship between the Buddhist system and the individual lay believer, and the interaction between Buddhist institutions and the secular community at all levels from village to nation. A study of kanjin campaigns can illuminate both areas of difference, since campaigns were one way that Buddhist institutions reached individual believers and institutions formed ties with secular communities. I will examine the way in which the very different needs of monks and of lay supporters converged to encourage cooperation in temple building and the spread of the Buddhist word. In so doing, I will consider both the religious mission of Buddhist institutions and the economy that supported these institutions: not only were they both important factors in change, but they cannot be disentangled. This is particularly so in regard to the kanjin

INTRODUCTION

3

campaign, which used evangelistic methods to benefit temple finances and, in exchange for land, rice, or money, offered the grace of the buddhas.

Sources For information on kanjin campaigns, I have examined sources of a variety of types and from a wide geographical area, concentrating primarily on the early medieval period, the eleventh through fourteenth centuries. Although none of these sources can be verified as individually complete and accurate, together they provide a reliable picture of kanjin campaigns. T h e evidence for this study includes both documentary and literary sources. The Taimyoji monks' appeal is an example of the kanjinjo, a request for donations that was either circulated among potential givers or used as a script from which solicitors read appropriate passages. Although only a handful of kanjinjo are available, other sources suggest that they were issued fairly often; their content sheds light on the aims and methods of kanjin campaigns as well as on the appeals thought likely to attract donations. Records of actual donations, though even more scarce, also provide valuable information. Other evidence includes government edicts authorizing or regulating kanjin campaigns, registers of temple holdings, contemporary diaries and letters, inscriptions, and extant buildings, images, and other items funded by kanjin means. These sources are supplemented by information from literary sources, especially setsuwa (tale) collections. Although setsuwa are fiction, historians often use them to illuminate the lives of provincial and urban commoners, who appear far too rarely in contemporary records. As Barbara Ruch suggests, literary sources are hardly more suspect than "factual" evidence, which can be altered or forged (1990:502); and they may in a sense be truer, simply because they had to ring true to contemporary audiences. The idealized portraits of solicitors and donors in setsuwa anecdotes illustrate what was expected of those involved in kanjin campaigns and set patterns that real solicitors and donors sometimes tried to follow; furthermore, setsuwa anecdotes themselves were often reworked to be used as kanjin appeals, and they thus have many commonalities with kanjinjo.

4

INTRODUCTION

Kanjin campaigns were conducted all over J a p a n , from central regions such as the Kinai (surrounding the capital at Kyoto and the former capital at Nara) and the Inland Sea coast to remote provincial locations such as the J a p a n Sea coast and Osumi in southern Kyushu. The aims and methods of kanjin campaigns are remarkably consistent from one locality to another, permitting broad statements about the kanjin process in J a p a n as a whole. The most complete and systematic evidence comes from central regions, where many temples and their landholdings were located. These were also the most economically advanced regions in J a p a n : they had the finest roads and ports, and they were the earliest regions to develop agricultural surpluses and markets, and to use cash as a medium of exchange. Thus it made sense for temples to concentrate their efforts on these regions, where people had the wherewithal to give and where gifts could be transported easily to the temple. There is no indication, however, that kanjin was a phenomenon of the center (that is, the central elite) that spread outward to remote locations, since provincial kanjin efforts can be traced about as far back in time as can those of the central regions.

Interpretive Questions: Anti-Structure and Muen In pursuing this study, I have found several interpretive constructs extremely helpful. This book has been informed especially by the insights of Victor Turner and Amino Yoshihiko. Turner (1969, 1974) maintains that certain individuals, groups, places, and conditions exist outside, on the margins of, and at the very bottom of the institutionalized arrangement of positions and statuses called social structure. Turner defines these phenomena as "anti-structure," which, he argues, is characterized by a special type of community termed communitas, in which generic h u m a n bonds replace hierarchy and cleavage. Amino (1978b) introduces the concept of muen, which he defines as the condition of being unattached to a particular institution (except the throne), overlord (except the emperor), or place (except J a p a n itself). Amino's definition of J a p a n as a community of the whole comes close to the sense of communitas as defined by Turner, and Amino's muen individuals are close to Turner's marginals or outsiders. The concepts of communitas and muen have important implications for a study of kanjin campaigns. To begin with, when

INTRODUCTION

5

solicitors requested " a speck of dust" or " a small tool," they were not merely valorizing tokens of faith and devotion (the equivalent of the Christian widow's mite), they were also constructing communities of donors bound by a common religious purpose (the welfare of the temple) and a common individual goal (rebirth in paradise). Membership in this collectivity depended neither on one's social or political status nor on the size of one's gift, since the smallest gift invited the supreme reward of salvation. Thus a sense of communitas was inherent in the process by which kanjin formed communities. The collectivities formed in this process opened new possibilities for cooperative action not only in temple building, but in other matters as well. It would appear that such communities were best formed in the realm of anti-structure, since structural ties could challenge the bonds of communitas. This contention is supported by the work of Amino (1978b:49, 167; 1975:358-367), who points out the muen nature of kanjin solicitors and many of the temples involved in kanjin campaigns. H e defines a muen temple as one supported not by landholding but by mendicancy and small donations. Furthermore, kanjin solicitors often referred to themselves as muen, indicating that they were not regular monks at any temple. In order to collect donations, they used locations, such as roads and ports, that were under only the throne's jurisdiction, and the rights of solicitors to operate in these venues were of the same order as the rights of peddler-craftsmen who traveled freely, licensed by the throne and under no other authority. The muen status gave kanjin solicitors the freedom to cross boundaries and transcend old structures, as I will illustrate at several points in later chapters. The centred theme of this book is the interaction between Buddhist institutions and lay society, as demonstrated by kanjin campaigns. Specifically, I will examine the ways in which kanjin campaigns contributed to the formation of collectivities in society as a whole, bringing models of community to secular life. Subsequent chapters will take up the kanjin process in detail. Chapter 2 will discuss kanjin prior to the end of the twelfth century, exploring the role of economic change and the contribution of new economic concepts to gift seeking and giving. Chapter 3 will outline the basic aims and appeals of kanjin efforts through a case study of a campaign conducted by a small temple. Chapter 4

6

INTRODUCTION

will provide another case study, this time of a nationwide campaign intended to fulfill a broad integrative function. Chapter 5 will examine the role of kanjin campaigns and solicitors in a wide variety of projects that enhanced local power and contributed to the solidarity of local communities. In Chapter 6, the conclusion, I will return to the issues of anti-structure and muen to assess the contributions of the kanjin process to the development of Buddhist thought and institutions and to consider its effect on some of the structures of society as a whole. Throughout the book, I will ask how people were persuaded to donate to kanjin campaigns, what rewards they were offered and what these rewards meant to them, and how the kanjin process was used both by temples and by individual lay donors for their own sometimes conflicting ends.

The Historiography of Kamakura

Buddhism

Kamakura Buddhism involved changes on two levels, that of the individual believer and that of the Buddhist institution. As far as the individual was concerned, the fundamental element of Kamakura Buddhism was the inclusion—in an actual, not a theoretical, sense—of all individuals in the category of those considered eligible for salvation. In terms of institutional developments, Buddhism's base of support expanded rapidly, stimulated by social and economic change in the late Heian and Kamakura periods. The phenomenon involved all elements of Buddhist society: established temples and their monks, innovative teachers who broke away from established Buddhism and founded independent sects, and isolated hermits, ascetics, and preachers. Both the new sects and outreach movements within the established schools emphasized faith and simple practice for the lay believer, and the spiritual welfare of the individual became an overwhelming concern. Within the monasteries, reform movements emphasizing purity and sincerity challenged the tendency for clergy to accumulate wealth and political power at the expense of their religious mission. Although strictly speaking these monastic movements involved only the clergy, they forced monks to rethink their relationship to lay believers and led, in many cases, to active efforts at evangelism and charity. Kanjin campaigns, evangelistic in nature and sometimes conducted for charitable purposes, played a significant part in these

INTRODUCTION

7

movements and became one vehicle of change in K a m a k u r a Buddhism. Yet campaigns were held almost exclusively by temples of existing schools, often characterized as the elitist establishment against which new movements reacted. T h u s the matter of kanjin raises fundamental questions: how existing schools participated in the change and, ultimately, how and why the change occurred. This final question has long been a subject for debate, and the debate itself is of considerable historiographical interest. Standard accounts that prevailed until the mid-1970s (and continue to inform textbooks) attributed the K a m a k u r a transformation entirely to new sects that broke both doctrinally and organizationally with established institutions. T h e central change in K a m a k u r a , according to this argument, was the introduction of Buddhism to the people by the Pure Land masters H o n e n (1133-1212) and Shinran (1173-1262), and the Lotus school founder Nichiren (1222-1282). Rinzai and Soto, the two branches of Zen that were established in the K a m a k u r a period, were not designed for the common folk, but they contributed to the expansion of Buddhism through their appeal to provincial warriors. Less attention is paid to the itinerant P u r e Land master Ippen (1239-1289), who actively proselytized a m o n g the people but maintained his devotion to established temples and practices. T h e existing kenmitsu schools—the N a r a schools, established in the seventh and eighth centuries in the old capital of Nara, and Tendai and Shingon, the dominant schools of the Heian period—are portrayed as corrupt and moribund, their influence rapidly waning, their reform efforts ultimately fruitless. 1 T h e new Buddhism of the K a m a k u r a age, according to this view, was purged of the excessive rituals and emphasis on material splendor that had m a d e its H e i a n counterpart a rich person's religion. Instead, people flocked to the pietistic sects, following either the Pure Land admonition to rely on the compassionate Buddha A m i d a and to recite his praises in a formula termed the nenbutsu or the admonition to recite the Lotus sutra title as instructed by Nichiren. T h e fact that the pietistic sects grew rapidly in the late medieval age lent credence to the standard argument, which was attractive for other reasons as well: the founders of the new sects were charismatic individuals who gave life to history, and their direct, simple teachings invited comparison with the Protestant Reformation. T h u s the story of K a m a k u r a Buddhism became a

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INTRODUCTION

dramatic tale of pious founders battling a stagnant, corrupt orthodoxy to purify Buddhism and broaden its teachings to embrace all men and women. That view by now has been rejected as overly simplistic. Just as some historians have questioned the abruptness and completeness of the transfer of political power from aristocrat to warrior, others have asked whether religious change occurred so quickly, so unambiguously, and in a way so neatly explained. The challenge comes from two directions: from studies of Buddhist institutions and their relationship to secular society, and from studies of the beliefs and practices of ordinary people. 2 More than one scholar has argued that it was the kenmitsu institutions and their clergy that occupied the religious mainstream of the Kamakura age and that in their own time the sectarian movements, so important later, were not very influential (e.g., Kuroda 1980:iii; Taira 1984:290; Morrell 1985:9-10). These findings suggest, moreover, that Kamakura Buddhism was eclectic, embracing old as well as new teachings, that sectarian boundaries were not always strictly drawn, and that the vigor of new teachings permeated the kenmitsu schools as well as the newly established sects. The very terminology used to distinguish the sectarian movements from established institutions presents a distorted picture of Kamakura Buddhism. The Pure Land, Lotus, and Zen sects are grouped together under the rubric "new Buddhism," in contrast to the term "old Buddhism," which paints the kenmitsu schools with the dismal colors of reaction. In addition, the term " n e w " makes the sectarian movements seem more revolutionary than they really were. In many ways they continued and refined innovative practices that had their origin in the kenmitsu schools: sectarian practices such as the nenbutsu, reverence for the Lotus sutra, and Zen meditation had penetrated kenmitsu Buddhism, especially Tendai, well before the Kamakura period. Moreover, when the kenmitsu schools broadened their evangelical efforts, they used some of the same devices adopted by Pure Land and Lotus masters to reach out to the common people. According to James H. Foard, " T h e worst damage wrought by the notion that Kamakura Buddhism consisted of five sects is that it has separated the similar and lumped together the dissimilar" (1980:266). Foard criticizes the standard explanation for neglecting movements that contributed to the Kamakura transfor-

INTRODUCTION

9

mation, such as devotional cults and mendicant orders within the kenmitsu schools. In Foard's view, to which I also subscribe, the Kamakura transformation must be attributed to all agents of change, whether they broke away from existing institutions or created evangelical movements within these institutions. In short, both kenmitsu schools and new sects contributed to the "central religious change of the Kamakura period," which, according to Foard, "resulted from a new affirmation: that an individual of any social or ecclesiastical standing could immediately reap the full benefits of Buddhist salvation, or such lesser benefits as health and prosperity, through some form of direct, personal devotion to a particular Buddha, bodhisattva, sutra or saint" (1980:267). Seen in this way, the salient features of Kamakura Buddhism are devotionalism and an emphasis on the salvation of the individual, which were concerns of both the kenmitsu schools and the new sects. Nonetheless there was a major distinction between the kenmitsu schools and the new movements: the organizational and doctrinal exclusivity that allows us unambiguously to use the term "sects" for the latter. The sects not only made an institutional break with kenmitsu Buddhism, they expected wholehearted and exclusive devotion from their clerics and lay followers. Furthermore, while kenmitsu teachings embraced a plurality of beliefs and practices, the sects each chose a single practice and denied the value of others. O n closer view, however, even this distinction begins to evaporate. Rinzai Zen was eclectic and tolerant in its early days, and Eisai, the man generally credited with bringing it to J a p a n , also served the kenmitsu temple Todaiji as the head of its kanjin office. Honen's practice of esoteric rituals contradicted his emphasis on the nenbutsu as the sole avenue to salvation (Matsunaga and Matsunaga 1974-1976, 2:61). Shinran did not think of himself as the founder of an independent sect; the formation of "sectarian identity" within Shinran's Jodo Shinshu can be seen as an evolutionary process that only began with Shinran's formative vision (Dobbins 1986:331). Moreover, the sects eventually built temples and installed images in them, organized their clergy into hierarchies, conducted funerals, and collected donations from their faithful lay believers—practices that made them resemble the kenmitsu schools. In fact, until they adopted some of these practices, the

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INTRODUCTION

influence of the sects was limited, indicating that the popularization attributed to them came in part from their role in spreading practices that their founders had originally rejected. Thus even hindsight cannot diminish the continued importance of the kenmitsu schools, both in their own time and as an influence on later religious developments. Although contemporary scholars are now paying the necessary attention to the kenmitsu schools and changes within them, very little work has been done on the relationship between the Kamakura transformation and socioeconomic change. While the focus was still exclusively on the new sects, it was often said that the decline of aristocratic society and the rise of the warrior class encouraged the development of new religious teachings and modes of organization suited to warriors' and commoners' needs. This proposition, however, was not explored in any detail, perhaps because it seemed so obvious. But if some agents of religious change worked within the kenmitsu schools, whose extensive landholdings made them part of the aristocratic establishment, then the link between religious and socioeconomic change becomes more complex. Thus it should be useful to examine in detail such phenomena as economic growth, the diffusion of political power, and the search for religious validation by power holders and power seekers. In other words, it is necessary to consider not only the ideas that informed Kamakura Buddhism, but also the way in which those ideas interacted with formal institutions and informal social structures. 3 The central impulse of Kamakura Buddhism, outreach to the lay community, required a search for converts, often synonymous with a search for patrons. Thus kanjin campaigns, the chief means by which kenmitsu temples sought the support of masses of lay believers, concern not only temple economics but also the spread of Buddhist teachings through evangelism and the connection of that process with historical change in society as a whole. An examination of kanjin campaigns should contribute to a thorough and accurate picture of Kamakura Buddhism that recognizes the continued importance of the kenmitsu schools in religious, political, and economic terms, and considers commonalities among all Buddhist schools—their shared religious base and practices, both old and new, and their similar reactions to religious and secular stimuli.

INTRODUCTION

11

Patronage and Temple Economics Even before the Kamakura transformation, Buddhism was accessible in theory to all men and women. The teaching that everyone had a buddha-nature and thus could eventually attain buddhahood had strong scriptural support, especially in the Lotus sutra, the central text of the powerful Tendai school. Prior to the twelfth century, however, established Buddhist institutions concentrated on serving the needs of the state and its central aristocracy rather than those of the people. Important temples received almost all their support from aristocratic families and the state. Their clergy, in turn, focused their efforts on aiding their supporters. An ailing ruler, a princess about to give birth, a province in need of rain to produce tax rice: these were typically the intended beneficiaries of the clergy's prayers. In the Nara period, when heterodox preachers and magicoreligious practitioners tried to spread Buddhism among the people, they were suppressed by the government, which feared the potential for disruption inherent in popular religious movements. Despite the efforts of the government, the word did get to the people, at least on a limited basis. We have little documentary information in this regard, but the ninth-century setsuwa collection Nihon ryoiki depicts popular evangelists and lay believers who promoted Buddhism by constructing village chapels. Despite this evidence, it is difficult to argue that important Buddhist temples routinely viewed ordinary people as targets for evangelism or that the masses flocked to temples. Commoners, especially those considered rude and dirty, were probably not welcome at institutions that catered to the aristocracy, and we can imagine that ordinary folk were intimidated by the common perception that buddhahood depended on one's ability to undergo rigorous practices, study abstruse texts, or donate large sums to temples. Temples, moreover, were part of the elite political system that monopolized farmland and taxed and worked the peasant population. It seems likely that peasants viewed Buddhist institutions as rulers and landlords rather than as sources of comfort and salvation. If important kenmitsu temples paid little attention to ordinary people until the late Heian period, it was partly because monks were busy scrambling for patrons. Their religious mission required temples to construct buildings, make images, and feed

12

INTRODUCTION

and clothe the monks whose prayers were thought to benefit society. These were activities that had to be supported by the lay community—in particular by those who had wealth and power. In seeking the support of high-placed patrons, monks became land managers and politicians; when political and economic circumstances made it advantageous to seek support from a broader social base, monks from the same temples became leaders of kanjin campaigns. In other words, the dual nature of temples as religious and economic institutions colored their interactions with the public. Temples depended on a complex system of patronage. In the Nara and early Heian periods, private sponsorship by noble families supplemented government funding in the form of "sustenance households" of peasants, whose produce was earmarked for particular temples. By the late Heian period, however, most large temples had come to depend on the shôen (estate) system that supported almost all propertied institutions of the time. Shôen were agricultural holdings that were not owned outright by any single party. Instead, a hierarchy of individuals or institutions had legal rights to the produce of the land as well as designated management rights and obligations. For the most part temples held shôen as absentee proprietors, leaving the day-to-day management of affairs to on-site managers. The proprietor's main task was to lobby the government for tax exemptions and protection against provincial officials and the officers of neighboring shôen, either of whom might trespass a shôen's borders and confiscate its crops. Crucial to temple welfare was the ability to obtain such exemptions and protection as well as commendations of new fields. In this highly competitive process, temples with close connections to the imperial family and the aristocracy had a considerable edge. For example, landholding in Yamato province was dominated by Kôfukuji, family temple of the powerful Fujiwara, and Tôdaiji, established as a national temple by the eighth-century emperor Shômu, had numerous holdings throughout western J a p a n . The Shingon establishment at M t . Kôya and the Tendai establishment at Mt. Hiei, both strongly supported by important figures at court, had significant holdings in their home provinces and elsewhere. Other temples, including some of venerable age and distinguished origin, fell behind in the fray. Small temples and

INTRODUCTION

13

newly established ones were not competitive: there was just not enough land to go around. Unsuccessful efforts to obtain or augment landholdings put some temples in a perpetual state of crisis. In the late Heian period, even powerful temples found that they could no longer rely entirely on shoen proprietorships for their support, and this problem intensified in the Kamakura age. This is one reason that temples turned increasingly to kanjin campaigns to supplement their income. It was not that the shoen system was declining, as has sometimes been suggested; rather, it was changing to the detriment of absentee proprietors and to the advantage of local managers and prosperous cultivators. Local magnates sponsored small-scale land reclamation projects that increased the productivity of their holdings (Inagaki 1975:168182), no doubt keeping some of the profits for themselves. When a warrior government (the bakufu) was installed in Kamakura in the late twelfth century, its representatives—military stewards called jito—were placed on many shoen and given a share of their income, and they too maximized their own profits, sometimes refusing to forward the proprietor's share of income from the fields. While some temples suffered, others discovered a new opportunity: to tap the time, wealth, and religious potential of a new class of people produced by political and economic change. O n e way to do so was through the kanjin campaign. This development was also encouraged by an extramonastic movement that began in the second half of the Heian period, similar to the one suppressed in the Nara period but much larger in scope. Inoue Mitsusada suggests that by the tenth century state control over religious activity had begun to unravel, and rules governing proselytization could be safely ignored (1956:219). In addition, perhaps because they spent so much effort competing for shoen rights and currying favor with the aristocracy, large kenmitsu temples were widely perceived as corrupt. This perception, along with economic growth at lower levels of society, contributed to a new religious spirit that encouraged Buddhist practice outside monastery walls—in other words, by muen individuals. Hermits, ascetics, arid popular preachers called hijiri—saints or holy persons—spread simplified Buddhist teachings among the people. Hijiri found fertile ground in newly prosperous folk, but their teachings appealed to the poor and simple as well. By weaving Buddhist elements into the magicoreligious folk beliefs that domi-

14

INTRODUCTION

nated rural religious life, Heian period hijiri prepared the way for the significant changes in Buddhism of the K a m a k u r a age. Moreover, it was m u e n hijiri who collected donations to kanjin campaigns, which then became a common source of funding for both small temples with scant access to public funds or noble patrons and large temples that needed to supplement income from agricultural land. T h e second half of the H e i a n period saw an explosion of popular evangelism on the part of hijiri acting outside formal institutions; these activities, ironically, sometimes benefited the very temples where hijiri had declined to practice. Moreover, the implicit criticism by hijiri caused regular monks to reconsider the relationship of their own institutions to the lay public, thus preparing these institutions to expand their base of support.

Mappo and the Nara Revival T h e attempt to reach a new class of supporters was also shaped by a Buddhist theory of time and history that seemed to dictate the opening of Buddhism to all potential believers. Although the new religious enthusiasts of the late H e i a n and K a m a k u r a periods did not necessarily accept this theory in all its implications, they turned to Buddhism for reasons of their own, in which the desire for salvation was entwined with the need to validate their own family structures and social positions. T h e theory that dominated Buddhism of the late Heian and K a m a k u r a periods maintained that history proceeds in cycles called kalpas, each one beginning with a golden age at the birth of a b u d d h a . According to this theory, which is outlined in the scriptures, a buddha's death is followed by gradual decline until a degenerate age called m a p p o (the end of the law) is reached. It was thought that in mappo, a time of famine, pestilence, poverty, shortened life spans, and general despair, h u m a n beings would completely lose the ability to practice the Buddhist law. As is well known, H o n e n , Shinran, and Nichiren seized on this theory to justify their advocacy of simple religious practice; but m a p p o thought influenced m a n y other religious developments in the late H e i a n and K a m a k u r a age, sometimes in rather subtle ways. It is important to remember that the kalpa theory was not a theory of linear decay, but rather one of cyclical decline and renewal. T h u s m a p p o would be followed by a gradual improve-

INTRODUCTION

15

ment in both religious and material conditions until the birth of a new buddha and a renewal of the golden age. Unlike theories of the Christian apocalypse, the "messiah" was to come in a fortunate era, not in the time of deepest misery. Both the age of despair and that of regeneration caught the imagination of medieval Japanese. The onset of mappo had been calculated as 1052,* and in the view of pious monks, pomp and corruption at their own monasteries seemed to point to decline. This apparent degeneration inspired many Buddhist thinkers, in the kenmitsu schools as well as in the pietistic sects, to consider methods of dealing with the hazards of a degenerate age. According to some views, the times made all men and women equal in their spiritual poverty; there was thus no reason, if there had ever been one, to deny a chance for salvation to those who lacked knowledge or virtue. In other views the desperate need to preserve the Buddhist law required the cooperation of all potential believers. As a result, both the kenmitsu schools and the pietistic sects expounded their teachings broadly, with little regard for their listeners' social standing or level of virtue. T h u s religious impulse joined with economic need and opportunity to impel the spread of Buddhist teachings to all people. Kalpa theory suggested various approaches to personal virtue and religious practice on the part of monks themselves. Some, like Honen and Shinran, recommended faith and emphasized the uselessness of personal effort, while others insisted that the degeneracy of the times demanded vigorous personal effort to follow the Buddhist law. Within the kenmitsu temples, especially those located in Nara, monks sought to revive their schools in the days of mappo by returning to the purity of the time of Shakyamuni, the historical Buddha (Yoshida 1972:167). At the core of this movement, called the Nara revival, lay a renewed emphasis on the precepts, an attempt to reach out to lay believers through evangelism and charity, and a concern with the preservation and restoration of Buddhism's physical framework of images and temples. The thread connecting these aims was the desire to build a community of monks and lay believers. Leading figures of the Nara revival included Chogen (1121-1206), Jokei (1155-1212), and Eizon (1201-1290), each a leader of kanjin campaigns to restore his temple (and a subject of subsequent chapters of this book). Jokei and Eizon were known for their diligent efforts to keep

16

INTRODUCTION

the monastic precepts and to persuade their fellow monks to do likewise. As a result of their and others' teachings, a core of " R i t s u " (precept keeping) monks developed within m a n y of the N a r a temples. Their strict lives distinguished them from the general monastic population, who preferred a looser approach to the minute regulations on daily conduct, especially the prohibition against amassing private wealth. T h e attempt to restore the precepts has been seen as a purely monastic movement (Foard 1980:266); yet Ritsu monks engaged in the very activities that directly touched lay believers, such as kanjin campaigns, charity, public building projects, and funeral services. These activities represented a second dimension to their religious practice: the urge to help all beings, at whatever stage of progress toward enlightenment. Implicit in the emphasis on the precepts was the value set on personal virtue for those who would save others. This emphasis, moreover, was a complex reaction to m a p p o thought and to kalpa theory in general. O n e motivation for keeping the precepts was the consciousness that only purity and goodness could ward off the degeneracy of the current age. But the attempt to return to the purity of Shakyamuni's time indicates a sense of optimism that it was possible to accomplish such a task. Leading figures of the N a r a revival such as Jokei, moreover, set their sights on the upswing of the kalpa rather than on mappo, focusing on Miroku, the Buddha of the future, who was expected to appear on earth at kalpa's end and repeat Shakyamuni's mission. Restorers of the N a r a schools had one eye on the degenerate present but the other on a golden future equated with a golden past. T h e expectation of Miroku's advent was one general conclusion of the kalpa theory. T h e fear of m a p p o combined with the anticipation of a Utopian future generated a desire to preserve the good things of the present—Buddhist texts, images, and temples —through dark times until the advent of the new Buddha. " U n t i l Miroku's coming" became a rallying cry for preservation efforts of all kinds, including the burial of sutras for safekeeping and the use of durable stone for sacred images. For example, early in the thirteenth century the Kofukuji abbot Gaen commissioned an engraving of Miroku on a cliff facing the small temple O n o d e r a in Yamato province. K5fukuji's account of the dedication ceremony explains the choice of material: " E v e n though their appearances

INTRODUCTION

17

are splendid, wooden images and paintings—alas—cannot help but decay. But when it comes to stone images, they can just about last until the advent of Miroku in the distant future" (Kofukuji betto shidai 1917:29). Generally speaking, the Nara revival was marked by an emphasis on preservation and restoration, which inspired efforts to establish new temples and rebuild old ones that had fallen into decay. When warriors burned the great Nara temple Todaiji to the ground in 1180, the temple's reconstruction, headed by the kanjin hijiri Chogen, became the centerpiece of the Nara revival. The effort demanded creativity, innovation, and the cooperation of all classes of people, and it served as a model for kanjin campaigns throughout the entire nation. Campaigns such as these, which promised salvation in return for small gifts, became important vehicles for the expansion of Buddhist teachings to the general populace. Other vehicles for disseminating Buddhist teachings among the populace were charity, public works projects, and funerals and cremations. M a n y of these activities were promoted by kanjin solicitors, and some were funded by donations from the public. Nara monks such as Eizon dispensed food to the outcast hinin and preached to them as well, urging them to adopt the bodhisattva precepts, which charged people to avoid evil, to practice virtue, and to help others. Charity and secular public works projects ingratiated monks with local leaders, helping them to establish footholds for their temples in the local community. Ritsu monks, in particular, used the rites of death to spread Buddhism among the people: common graveyards were established at Ritsu temples, Ritsu monks managed funeral services, and lower-class Ritsu affiliates cremated the dead (Hosokawa 1987:1-30). It can be argued that Ritsu monks who introduced Buddhist funeral services to the poor played as significant a part in bringing Buddhism to the masses as did leaders of the pietistic sects. Whatever their differences, both the founders of new sects and the Nara revivalist monks responded creatively to the challenge posed by kalpa theory and the belief that the world had entered the age of mappo. Although the mappo question was of great concern to almost all the Buddhist clergy, they did not react in a uniform way, and those (such as Jokei) who considered the progression of the entire kalpa came to somewhat different conclu-

18

INTRODUCTION

sions from those (such as HSnen) who focused on mappo alone. However, motives for and methods of evangelizing lay believers were often remarkably similar, based as they were on the foundation laid by hijiri in the late Heian period. Although the sects and the kenmitsu schools might differ over the question of eclecticism, both offered lay believers easy routes to and concrete visions of salvation. How did lay belieivers view the question of mappo? The standard view of the Kamakura faithful shows a despairing populace that accepted the notion of decline and turned to religion as the last hope in an age so chaotic that it seemed to validate the dire predictions in the sutras. But there is little evidence that the lay population as a whole regarded the age with a sense of despair. True enough, conditions were difficult and people often suffered. The transition from the Heian to the Kamakura period was marked by banditry, famine, and civil war; provincial warriors grew strong while civilian aristocrats began to lose their monopoly on wealth and power. Among the laity, it was the aristocrats—the shoen proprietor class—who most feared the dangers of mappS. Few envisioned the eventual eclipse of aristocratic government by a warrior elite, yet many were aware that times were changing to their disadvantage. For them, the end of the Buddhist law mirrored their own perceptions of decline. The new Buddhist enthusiasts of the Kamakura period, however, were not aristocrats but provincial warriors, local magnates, and small landholders. Some of them, who had begun to manipulate the shoen system to their own advantage, had little reason for despair but much for optimism. Furthermore, they needed to validate their activities in religious terms. Much of their religious energy was devoted to obtaining salvation for dead parents and other forebears, a purpose that led them to donate to temples in the name of the dead as well as to conduct memorial services and erect memorial stupas and tablets. These actions indicate an emphasis on lineage, important in justifying claims to property and achieving distinction in the local community. In addition, warriors among the faithful needed to mitigate the violence in their own and their forebears' lives; thus efforts were made to bring Buddhist salvation to those who had taken human life and to soothe the spirits of battle victims. The efforts to save the dead, based on the principle that the fruits of one's own good deeds

INTRODUCTION

19

could be passed on to chosen others, manifested the empowerment of believers rather than their helplessness. As local economies flourished under the control of local elites, temples used kanjin campaigns to form ties with communities and their leaders. Kanjin solicitors promised donors salvation, couched in terms that reinforced the communal value of adding one's own small effort to a common cause. In exchange for alms, solicitors peddled their organizational skills, their technical expertise, and their charisma, implementing projects that benefited both the religious and the secular communities. In a later chapter I will explore the efforts of one medieval ruler to reinforce and legitimize his power through the restoration of Todaiji. What was true of rulers was also true of local magnates: the establishment or restoration of a local temple enhanced their prestige and their power. Moreover, when kanjin solicitors who built temples also built bridges and irrigation ponds, the benefits of these projects to society were often described in religious terms. These activities extended the power of temples, which tightened their grip on landholdings and formed cooperative relationships with the very local figures who had threatened their rights as shoen proprietors. All this suggests that hope and ambition, rather than despair, motivated many lay men and women to form attachments with Buddhist temples. T h e new associations between Buddhist institutions, on the one hand, and individuals and communities, on the other, depended much on the creation of common ground by two parties, the lay public and religious leaders, whose needs differed widely yet converged in significant ways. These needs were manifested in the methods and the goals of kanjin campaigns. Even venal methods—donations, though in theory voluntary, were sometimes assessed as taxes or as tolls—became the means to an ultimately religious end: the preservation and promotion of the Buddhist law throughout the entire kalpa, from the degenerate times of mappo to Miroku's golden future. In this chapter I have suggested that the dynamics of change in early medieval Buddhism involved complex interactions between temples and patrons, proselytizers and proselytized, and social structure and its margins that cannot be examined outside a general context of socioeconomic change. Though a study of kan-

20

INTRODUCTION

jin campaigns cannot explain all these dynamics, it can contribute to an understanding of them, especially of the roles of such seemingly disparate individuals as muen hijiri, Ritsu monks, and lay believers on every social level. The next chapter will examine the way in which socioeconomic change contributed to the early development of kanjin campaigns and suggest some of the ways that temples and lay patrons made use of one another in the process.

BEFORE KAMAKURA: E A R L Y K A N J I N CAMPAIGNS

In the late Heian and Kamakura periods, socioeconomic change and the evangelistic impulse based on mappo thought impelled many temples to seek support from the public through kanjin campaigns. The practice of kanjin, however, developed long before, even before the term itself came into use. With a few exceptions, early fundraising efforts were conducted with limited aims and in limited geographical areas, but these early efforts helped to create models for later, far more extensive campaigns. When economic growth in the late Heian period placed surplus wealth in the hands of potential donors, temples began to find kanjin campaigns effective means to finance even major projects. The expanded use of kanjin campaigns involved a process of regularization on the part of both temples and lay authorities. Most early campaigns were ad hoc ventures initiated and conducted by muen hijiri—in other words, they were phenomena of anti-structure. But as Victor Turner has pointed out, anti-structure is generally a temporary phenomenon that tends toward structure (1974:248-249); in the case of kanjin, temples seem to have made a conscious effort to bring campaigns and muen hijiri under their own control. In addition, campaigns of any substance were feasible only if they were recognized, at least implicitly, by the state. Political authorities had their own reasons for supporting temple fundraising. In the eighth century, the throne used a public campaign for temple construction to buttress its political authority, but this was an jsolated instance. In the late Heian period, however, secular powers on both a national and a local scale began systematically to appropriate kanjin as a means of legitimation.

21

22

BEFORE KAMAKURA

In short, both temples and lay authorities had reason to bring kanjin efforts under firm control. Still, the muen nature of kanjin hijiri gave them certain advantages as fundraisers, allowing them to travel freely and to appeal to all classes of people. Thus the kanjin process was never entirely subsumed under state authority or incorporated into temple structures, and muen hijiri continued to play an important part in campaigns, sometimes even to the point of clashing with a temple's regular monks. This chapter will take up the process by which kanjin campaigns were initiated and then regularized prior to the Kamakura period, with special attention to two factors: the changing role of muen hijiri and the influence of economic change.

The Earliest Kanjin

Campaigns

Sometime in the mid-Heian period, the term kanjin was first used to signify efforts by temples to canvass the public for contributions. That usage expanded upon the word's original meaning, the encouragement of Buddhist faith and virtue: contributing to temples was one of the good deeds that the Buddhist lay faithful were expected to perform. In original Indian Buddhism, in fact, giving alms to monks was the only act recommended to the lay believer, who could not hope to reach buddhahood through the study, ritual, and asceticism that monks practiced. The faithful believer's best chance at buddhahood was to earn enough merit through supporting monks to allow rebirth in his or her next life as a h u m a n male inclined to become a monk himself. Although Japanese Buddhists, influenced by the devotionalism of Mahayana teachings, would not have defined the role of the lay believer quite so strictly, the giving of alms was seen as a significant path toward individual salvation. Active efforts to secure donations from lay believers and to pool these donations for a specific project began in the first centuries of Buddhism in J a p a n . Evidence that monks collected donations for the copying of sutras can be found as early as 685 (Horiike 1976:5-6). Large-scale campaigns for gifts, however—at least those that reached the commoner public—were discouraged by legal restrictions on Buddhist evangelism, such as the soniryo (rules for monks and nuns) in the eighth-century law codes, which regulated the daily lives of the clergy. Among other things, the reg-

BEFORE KAMAKURA

23

ulations forbade monks and nuns to foment political dissent, to establish centers for preaching "false doctrines" to the people, and to heal illness through sorcery. Monks and nuns were allowed to beg for food only, and only for the purpose of ascetic training. Moreover, they were forbidden "to entrust the scriptures or images of Buddha to lay persons and let them visit the houses of the faithful for purposes of solicitation" (Kitagawa 1969:258259). 1 Thus private alms collecting was categorized as illegal and unorthodox Buddhist practice. Whether the regulations addressed existing problems or only anticipated them, the government was clearly threatened by the prospect that charismatic religious figures might provoke disorder. Not everyone obeyed the law, however, and a number of renegade "clergy"—many not officially ordained—continued to populate the religious scene of eighth-century J a p a n . The construction of an official system of temples in mid-century can be seen as an attempt to control this potentially dangerous situation as well as to mobilize the symbolic and ritual power of Buddhism in support of the state. The centerpiece of the project was Todaiji, a great temple built in the capital in an effort to legitimize and strengthen the Japanese throne. Construction was financed in part by a campaign to obtain donations from the public, a method that was probably intended to deflect protest by inviting broad participation in the project. If alms campaigns conducted privately were a threat to public authority, the solution was to bring them under public control. In so doing, the government not only appropriated the alms-collection method, but also the era's most popular and potentially dangerous evangelist. The man chosen to head the campaign was a monk named Gyoki (668-749), at first glance a curious choice. Gyoki was one of the renegade monks who had aroused the anxiety of the state not many years before. According to a complaint registered in the fourth month of 717 in the Shoku nihongi: These days the worthless monk Gyoki and his disciples swarm along the public thoroughfares, recklessly explaining ill omens, forming factions, burning their fingers [to use them as torches] and stripping skin from their elbows [on which to copy passages from the sutras]. They go from door to door spreading false teachings and extorting donations. Claiming to be saints, they deceive the householders. Lay

24

BEFORE KAMAKURA

believers and clergy are confused, and all classes of people abandon their labor. (Aokietal. 1989-1990, 2:26-27) The passage suggests that Gyoki used extortionate tricks to bewitch the populace and fomented dissent against the government. In particular, he was charged with "recklessly explaining ill omens"—in other words, suggesting that disasters such as floods or famines were indications of government wrongdoing. Peasants burdened with heavy taxes may have been all too eager to blame the government for these ills as well. It was perhaps this dangerous situation that impelled the government to curry favor with Gyoki instead of suppressing him, and in 721 he was invited by Empress Gensho to lecture at court (Matsunaga and Matsunaga 19741976, 1:119). Shomu (r. 724-749), her successor, granted Gyoki the official clerical title daisojo, thus recognizing him as part of the Buddhist establishment, and asked for his help in building Todaiji. Specifically, he was asked to collect donations for the construction project. In inviting Gyoki's participation and stressing the voluntary nature of the subscription campaign, Shomu rejected the option of financing the project through taxes alone, which might have aroused popular protest (led, perhaps, by Gyoki himself). Perhaps the emperor believed that he could defuse objections to the expense of the grand project with the help of someone close to the people and with at least the appearance that the project had public and voluntary support. Or, as J o a n R . Piggott suggests, he may have embraced Gyoki's Mahayana ideal of evangelizing all humankind (1987:123). In either case, it appears that the choice of both the method to finance the temple and the man to implement that method fit one of Shomu's purposes in launching the project in the first place: to transcend internal conflict through claiming sacred legitimation (see Piggott 1987:5). Thus Shomu chose to add one more element to the complex ideology supporting the Japanese throne. Its legitimacy came, first of all, from the claim that the monarch was descended from Amaterasu, kami (deity) of the sun and the highest figure in the native pantheon. During the process of the centralization of power in the seventh and eighth centuries, the monarch was also promoted as a Chinese-style political ruler in charge of land and official appointments, as a Confucian ruler who nurtured his people, and as a link between cosmos and people, nature and nation, also in Chi-

BEFORE KAMAKURA

25

nese style. Buddhism served several important functions in the legitimizing process. Because Buddhism had come from China, it helped to reflect Chinese glory—and the idea of a powerful Chinese-style monarch—upon the Japanese political situation. Buddhist deities were asked to protect the personal welfare of the monarch and his ministers and the security and prosperity of the nation as a whole. Through patronage of temples, the monarch could demonstrate the largesse and grandeur of the throne. Devotion to Buddhism enhanced the image of the monarch as a virtuous ruler. Perhaps the most important factor, however, was that Buddhism—if its institutions and symbol system were monopolized as Shomu intended—could help to unify Japanese society under the throne. When Shomu constructed an integrated system of state Buddhism with Todaiji at its center, he was attempting to create two concentric systems, one religious and the other political. In the first, Todaiji occupied the center of a radiating system, with provincial temples (kokubunji) on the outer ring. Todaiji's centrality was further symbolized by its main object of worship, a gigantic image (Daibutsu) of Roshana Buddha, from whom all phenomena were said to emanate. The political scheme placed the throne at the center of a similarly radiating system and provincial and local governments on the outer rings. Shomu's adoption of " R o s h a n a " as his religious name at the image's dedication ceremony (Matsunaga and Matsunaga 1974-1976, 1:121) confirms that he saw his own position as analogous to that of the Daibutsu. Shomu's choice of a public campaign to help finance the casting of the image supported his aim of integrating the nation with the throne at the center. His choice of Gyoki to head the campaign should also be seen in that light. In his proclamation of 743 authorizing the project, Shomu declared, "If there are those whose hearts are moved to donate even a twig, a blade of grass, or a clump of earth to help in the construction of this image, these offerings should all be accepted. The provincial and district officials must not intrude on the people for the sake of this project and forcibly exact donations from t h e m " (Aoki et al. 1989-1990, 2:432-433 [743/10/15]). The edict, in short, stipulated the collection of donations of any size, but only if they were voluntary. In a few days Gyoki and his followers were dispatched to gather contributions (Aoki et al. 1989-1990, 2:432-433 [743/10/19]). We have no way of knowing how successful Gyoki's cam-

26

BEFORE KAMAKURA

paign was or what percentage of the expense of the image was, in fact, met by voluntary donations. According to Todaiji yoroku, compiled in the early twelfth century, more than two million donors contributed rice, wood, metal, and labor to the project (1907:37, quoted in Piggott 1987:128). The truth of this account is inconsequential. The important factors are the participation of a popular leader and his ability to defuse public dissatisfaction, making the construction of Todaiji a national effort. Thus the great temple symbolized not only the glory of a particular emperor, but also the link between the emperor and his people, who were described as willing parties in the temple's founding. The construction of Todaiji was an extraordinary project, duplicated only in the late twelfth century when that temple, burned to the ground, was restored through a national effort. In the Nara period, large temples rarely relied on public donations for construction and major repairs, though there are records of at least one other eighth-century campaign. In 781 the shami (novice monk) Hokyo asked dozoku chishiki (clergy and lay believers) in Ise, Mino, Owari, and Shima provinces for gifts to support the construction of a lecture hall and a bath for the monks at the temple affiliated with Tado shrine (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 1:11-12 [doc. 20]). Though we know little about this campaign, the fact that it crossed provincial boundaries suggests that it was officially sanctioned and that it may have been quite significant in terms of the people reached and the donations collected. As for village temples, they were probably built and adorned by the people themselves. O n e episode in the ninth-century tale collection Nikon ryoiki tells of a wealthy man from Omi province who had vowed to copy the Yugaron but had been unable to do so (Kyokai 1984:227-228; Nakamura 1973:231-233 [book 3, no. 8]). Eventually he lost his wealth and abandoned his family to become a vagabond ascetic, still keeping his vow in mind. O n e day he saw a vision of Miroku appearing in a bush in the precincts of a mountain temple. When local people heard of the vision, they came to see it too, bringing bags of rice, money, and clothing as donations. With these donations, the man from O m i was able to pay scribes to copy one hundred scrolls of the sacred text. Another tale recalls the efforts of Shingyo, a man from a powerful family in Kii province (Kyokai 1984:247-249; Nakamura 1973:244-245 [book 3, no. 17]). Shingyo adopted the religious life, taking vows

BEFORE KAMAKURA

27

privately, and took up residence at a village temple. O n e night he heard groans of pain from two unfinished Buddhist images. H e and a visiting monk from the Nara temple Gangoji organized a lay association to finance completion of the sculpture. The frequent mention of chishiki (believers) and village temples in these and other Rydiki tales suggests that kanjin efforts may have actually been common in the eighth and ninth centuries (see Sasaki 1987:22-34), though few were conducted on a significant enough scale to warrant inclusion in contemporary records.

Hijiri: The Legmen of Kanjin

Campaigns

Much of the actual work of collecting donations was performed by kanjin hijiri, sometimes also called kanjin shami or kanjin so (monk). The term was not used very precisely; rather, it was one of several descriptive terms applied informally to anyone who rejected monasticism in favor of a vagabond or reclusive religious life. The terms shami and hoski had similar implications, as did shonin, the first character of which was sometimes the character for hijiri. The word hijiri also denotes special qualities of saintliness that regular monks did not necessarily possess. These qualities were incorporated in the concept of muen, as "if the very involvement in structure obstructed one's pursuit of the Buddhist path. Hijiri might include ordained monks retired or in retreat from regular clerical duties, hermits who had never troubled with ordination, or householders who periodically abandoned their fields and their families to embark on ascetic mountain pilgrimages. Though hijiri did live at temples, this was generally not a permanent arrangement; and most of the temples in question were isolated in the mountains and known for their encouragement of ascetic practice rather than for scholarship or rituals on behalf of the state. Hijiri, like most nonelites, receive little attention in standard documentary sources, but setsuwa collections contain many striking portraits of them. O n e eleventh-century example is the setsuwa collection Hokke genki's biography of Ninkyo, who studied at Todaiji and devoted himself to the Lotus sutra (Inoue and Osone 1974:73-74; Dykstra 1983:45-46 [book 1, no. 16]). H e began his ascetic life in summer retreats in the mountains and eventually developed supernatural powers enabling him to do such things as

28

BEFORE KAMAKURA

fill his water j a r by telekinesis. At age eighty he retired permanently to Mt. Atago, west of Kyoto. Dressed in rags or deerskin and consuming only occasional bowls of gruel or cups of tea, he recited the sutra constantly and lived to the age of 127. O n his death he appeared in an old man's dreams, holding a copy of the sutra and declaring that he was about to be reborn in Miroku's Tosotsu heaven. Another example appears in both Hokke genki and the twelfthcentury setsuwa collection Konjaku monogatarishu, although in this case the term hoshi is used instead of hijiri (Inoue and Osone 1974:142-144; Dykstra 1983:94-95 [book 2, no. 73]; Nagazumi and Ikegami 1966-1968, 2:161-164; translations from Ury 1979: 99-101 [book 15, no. 28]). In this tale a pilgrim-monk—a type of hijiri himself, though again the term is not used—lost his way in the mountains of Kyushu but fortunately came upon a small hut. The woman who lived there reluctantly allowed him to stay the night. After dinner, a man appeared, carrying something: " T h e traveler saw that he was a priest (hoshi)—but with hair three or four inches long, dressed in rags. His appearance was horrifying: he was too filthy to come near." Not only that: when he sat down to eat what he had brought, the pilgrim discovered that it was the carrion of oxen and horses. Later that evening the pilgrim heard his host get out of bed and leave the hut. Curious, the pilgrim followed, to discover a small chapel where his host performed the nenbutsu and Lotus sutra readings. The next morning the host told his story to the visitor: " 'Even though I was born in a human body and have become a priest, I shamelessly break the commandments, and when I die I shall fall into an evil path. . . . I inevitably sin in everything. For this reason, I seek out food that ordinary people won't even look at and prolong my existence while I long for the Buddha p a t h . ' " He finished the conversation by predicting the date of his death and (somewhat inconsistently) his rebirth in paradise. O n the appointed day the pilgrim-monk returned to seek out this unusual man, who indeed was on the brink of death. He and his female companion retired to the chapel and spent the night chanting the nenbutsu (praise to the Buddha's name). In the morning the hut was filled with radiant light and an "indescribable fragrance," clear indications that the couple had been welcomed into Amida's paradise.

BEFORE KAMAKURA

29

Although the term hijiri is not used in this instance, the story clearly portrays aspects of the hijiri ideal. The two central characters both follow the hijiri path in their own ways. The traveler through whose eyes the episode is seen is no doubt an ordained monk who has abandoned the settled monastic life at least temporarily; his host probably never took Buddhist orders at all. A more fundamental point is the episode's definition of religious sincerity. Although the hoshi violated Buddhist prohibitions against eating meat and (apparently) having sexual relations (not to mention the societal taboo against eating carrion!), he turns out to be a genuinely sincere religious man. His consumption of carrion can even be interpreted as a virtuous act, since he is leaving better food for others. The story not only suggests the Buddhist concept that appearances are illusory, as Marian Ury points out (1979:12), but sets the relative values of following monastic and social regulations, on the one hand, and of pursuing sincere religious devotions, on the other. The two setsuwa episodes cited here suggest that the hijiri ideal embraced seeming polar opposites. On the one hand, the hijiri was the perfect ascetic; on the other hand, he was the sincere religious practitioner who broke the rules. By this time it should be clear that it is much harder to explain what the hijiri were than what they were not. They were not regular monks in permanent residence at a temple, devoting their time to scholarship and temple ceremonies and their ambition to rising through the monastic hierarchy. Other than that it is difficult to define them, since their relationship with society at large was no more uniform than was their emphasis on ascetic discipline. The term hijiri embraces two seemingly disparate modes of religious action: reclusion and evangelism. A hijiri might combine the lives of hermit and preacher, secluding himself in a mountain cave to fast and to meditate on a crude image he had carved himself, then emerging to exhort villagers to follow the Buddhist path. For example, the hijiri Genjo is portrayed in the Hokke genki as a hermit who retired to the mountains, on one occasion lived for a hundred days on a grain of millet per day, and consorted with boar, deer, bears, and wolves; however, he also actively preached among the people (Inoue and Osone 1974:144-145; Dykstra 1983:95-96 [book 2, no. 74]). As hermit-ascetics, most hijiri followed the esoteric tradition that dominated both Shingon and Tendai: the attempt to reach

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buddhahood in one's present life through meditation, ritual, and magicoreligious formulae transmitted secretly from master to qualified disciple. As preachers, hijiri promoted simple practices that anyone could perform and goals that anyone could comprehend (see Inoue 1956:217-226). People learned to recite the nenbutsu, to cherish the Lotus sutra not only as a sacred text but as a talisman with both magical and salvific powers, and to devote themselves tp particular buddhas and bodhisattvas such as Jizo, who had promised to rescue sinners from hell. The spiritual goal advanced by hijiri was not described as nirvana, a state that must have seemed uncomfortably like extinction, but as rebirth in a paradise painted in concrete, physical terms. Hijiri, moreover, promoted a type of Buddhism that answered the mundane needs of ordinary people as well as their spiritual aims. The religious practices that hijiri taught the common folk were laced with magic and ritual designed to make crops and people prosper. Moreover, though often lowborn and illiterate— in contrast to scholarly regular monks—hijiri were skilled in such tasks as building bridges and digging wells. Thus they were often of practical use to their followers. For reasons such as these, it was largely through the efforts of hijiri that Buddhism entered the popular consciousness and wove itself into pre-Buddhist beliefs. Hijiri were the heirs of such shami as Shingyo and Hokyo, portrayed in the Nihon rydiki, but especially of Gyoki, who had become a folk hero known for his compassion, his wisdom, and his working of miracles. His activities as a founder of temples—he is credited with forty-nine—and his skill as a builder of bridges, roads, and irrigation canals also captured the popular imagination. In this guise Gyoki appears in almost all important setsuwa collections. According to the Hokkegenki, Gyoki was skilled in construction work that benefited the populace: "After studying how paddy fields should be farmed and irrigated, he dug ponds for reservoirs and built irrigation dikes. Hearing of this, the people came to help him, and the jobs were finished in no time at all. Even now, farmers reap the benefits of his projects" (Inoue and Osone 1974:51-52 [book 1, no. 2]; see also the translation in Dykstra 1983:27-29). Curiously, it was not until the Kamakura period that Gyoki emerged in the common view as the Todaiji kanjin hijiri, though a popular but apocryphal tale in the tenth-century Sanbdekotoba links

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him with the temple's dedication in 752, some three years after his actual death. The tale reports that Shomu asked him to lecture at the Todaiji dedication. H e modestly declined the invitation but served as head of the welcoming committee for the Indian monk Bodhisena, who was given the honor instead (Minamoto 1982, 1:180-181; Kamens 1988:198-199 [book 2, no. 3]). Few Heian period hijiri rose to attract the imperial attention that Gyoki did, however. Most simply inhabited the fringes of the monastic world, lodging in small temples in commoner neighborhoods or in the mountains, or simply wandering from place to place (Nakanodo 1970:417-418). Sometimes hijiri built temples themselves with popular support. The tenth-century hijiri Kuya, for example, established Rokuharamitsuji in Kyoto. Others sought donations for large monasteries in return for room and board at one of their branch temples. Hijiri often referred to themselves as muen, a term that described their vagabond status and their lack of permanent connections to any single institution. The twelfth-century tale collection Shut ojoden describes one such hijiri, a man named Zenpo: " H e wandered through the provinces and villages without a fixed abode, always dressed in shabby, soiled clothing. H e collected alms from monks and lay believers and lectured on the sutras" (Inoue and Osone 1974:385 [book 3, no. 27])." Another example appears in the tale collection Honcho shinshu ojoden (Inoue and Osone 1974:691 [no. 34]). This story tells of Dojaku (d. 1147), called the Iga hijiri because he was from Iga province. Dojaku retired from his life as a layman and began a lengthy pilgrimage to holy mountains and famous temples in neighboring Yamato. Eventually he arrived at Gangoji, where he sat in meditation and practiced the nenbutsu. Subsequently he moved to another temple, where he solicited donations for one thousand images of Kannon—probably small wooden figures or woodblock prints. Later on, "mustering all his ability and never ceasing his efforts, even for a day," he collected donations to have three giant bells cast, giving one to Todaiji, one to Hasedera, and one to the temple at the holy mountain of Kinpusen. Like Zenpo, kanjin hijiri were mostly of low status: unordained, unattached, and unschooled. They were temporarily employed by temples for kanjin activities, perhaps moving as a group from temple to temple. Their presence was not always welcomed by the regular monks. A document dated 1075, issued

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by the Toji branch temple Chinkoji in Kyoto, complains of a group of hijiri hired by the temple's betto (administrator). Attempting to collect donations for the repair of a pagoda—possibly at Toji rather than at Chinkoji itself—the hijiri pestered even the Chinkoji monks: " I n the past three years they have paced back and forth on the road in front [of the temple], practicing ascetic rituals and pressing the monks to give them donations, saying, "If you'll only add a speck of dust—!" (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 3:1122-1125 [doc. 1110]). Although the complaint clearly had political motivations— the betto was an outsider appointed to the post against the wishes of the local monks themselves—the description of the hijiri and their kanjin activities hints that they were an extortionate lot, beyond the pale of monkish respectability. This description may be a reflection of educated monks' prejudice against those of modest social origins: even though they freed regular monks from the demeaning but necessary work of begging for contributions, hijiri were probably despised by their monastic "betters." Heian period kanjin hijiri collected donations for a variety of projects, such as repairing temple buildings, making images, or copying sutras. According to the tenth-century literary anthology Honcho monzui, the Amidist hijiri Kuya, to fulfill his vow to have the Dai Hannya sutra copied, asked people for tiny contributions —"half a penny or a speck of dust" (Kakimura 1968, 2:891; Horiike 1976:6). Secular public works projects were also supported by kanjin donations: an episode in Konjaku monogatarishu tells of a hijiri—modeled, perhaps, on Gyoki—who canvassed villagers to rebuild a dilapidated bridge (Nagazumi and Ikegami 1966-1968,6:188 [book 31, no. 2]). Contemporary sources suggest some ways in which the hijiri worked. The band at Chinkoji paced back and forth in front of the temple, no doubt entreating passersby as well as the monks themselves. Representatives of Mandaraji in Sanuki province traveled from village to village, collecting individual donations and recording the names of givers in a rollbook (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 3:1089, 1109 [docs. 1077, 1088]). Most Heian kanjin efforts were small-scale and local, however (Kawakatsu 1971:58), and the Mandaraji project, which ranged over several provinces, seems to have been atypical for the age. Far more common were cases in which hijiri collected a few donations for a limited project.

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The Copying and Burial of Sutras Kanjin hijiri were particularly active in securing donations for the copying of sutras. Compared to some of the other projects funded by kanjin campaigns, sutra copying was probably inexpensive; thus it could be accomplished by securing donations from a relatively small number of people. Donors included ordinary villagers as well as aristocrats, and provincials as well as residents of the capital. For example, in 1115 and 1116, the kanjin monk (so) Shoken sought donations to support the copying of sutras for the collection at Horyuji (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 13:169-171 [docs. 943, 948, 955]). Shoken's name appears as kanjin so on three sutras, one donated by a rural notable, one by an official of the Imperial Storehouse Bureau, and one by a village kechienshu (donors' group). Copying sutras was thought to be a particularly efficacious way to secure salvation for oneself, or for others through the transfer of merit. Dedications of the Horyuji sutras indicate that the act of copying would benefit not only the donors and their families, but everyone else as well: "This has been done to secure rebirth in the Gokuraku paradise for our ancestors and benefactors, to fulfill their prayers in this world and the next, and to bring spiritual benefits equally to all creatures" (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 13:170 [doc. 948]). Sometimes people preserved sutras for the future by burying them in the ground, an activity that was often funded by kanjin efforts. The first known sutra burial was sponsored in 1007 by the illustrious Fujiwara Michinaga, the power behind the throne, whose inscription expressed the hope that upon the advent of Miroku the future Buddha, the sutras would emerge from the earth and help to convert the congregation present (Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1973: no. 1). During the next two centuries, many sutras were either inserted in copper tubes for burial or inscribed on tile or stone. The effort to preserve them was often linked directly to Miroku's advent and the hope for the future that it promised; even when this purpose was not explicitly stated, it seems likely that it was kept in mind by donors and kanjin hijiri. Though some sutra burials were sponsored by the most powerful among the nobility, others were the work of provincials of much lower rank. For example, in 1083 a donors' group from pro-

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vincial notable families named Kiyohara, Usa, and Fujiwara had a copy of the Lotus sutra buried at Rokugosan Suigetsuji in Bungo province (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 12:133-134 [doc. 132]). In 1103 a layman from Yamashiro province assumed the guise of a monk and wandered among the people, collecting from "some ten thousands" in order to copy the Lotus sutra, which was then buried at a Kai province site (Sasaki 1987:16-17). Such examples suggest that kanjin hijiri rapidly spread the practice of sutra burial throughout the populace, who responded with donations according to their means. It also seems that hijiri worked closely with metal casters who made the copper casings in which the sutras were placed (Nakanodo 1970:418). This close association between kanjin hijiri and artisans continued throughout the Kamakura period.

Kanjin and Temple

Building

The practice of kanjin accommodated both temples and muen hijiri: temples received income without expending the efforts of their regular monks, and hijiri found a means of support that they could combine with solitary meditation and asceticism. Yet there must have been disadvantages in a system that permitted so much independence for the hijiri. Receipts must have been hard to predict or control, and temples could never be sure that the hijiri were keeping only the agreed-upon percentage. If major projects were to be funded through kanjin campaigns, temples had to manage these campaigns more firmly. Temples regularized the kanjin process in several ways in the late Heian and Kamakura periods. Some relied on their own monks to supervise the campaigns and sometimes even to do the legwork themselves. Written requests were issued, stating the projects for which donations were intended, and were presumably circulated to potential givers. Temple offices, in some cases permanent ones, were established to oversee kanjin efforts, and the cooperation of court, shogunate, provincial officials, and shoen proprietors was actively sought. Using these methods, temples were able to finance even costly construction projects in part through kanjin campaigns. A major campaign of the Heian period was conducted in the late eleventh century by Mandaraji in Sanuki province, a branch

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temple of the great Kyoto monastery Toji (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 3:1089, 1109 [docs. 1077, 1088]; Kagawa ken no chimei 1989:374375). The project began in 1058 when a monk named Zenban (or Zenbo)—perhaps a muen hijiri—visited the temple, said to have been founded by the Shingon patriarch Kukai, and lamented its dilapidated state. Zenban settled at Mandaraji, vowing to rebuild it, and by 1072 had collected some donations and entered contributors' names in a rollbook. Mandaraji's overall financial condition, however, was extremely unstable. Even though the temple had been granted tax exemptions, these privileges were frequently ignored by local authorities, and others encroached on some of the temple's fields. Moreover, Mandaraji shared a betto with its neighbor Zentsuji, also a Toji branch. Zenban complained to the main temple that the betto had seized Mandaraji materials and diverted them to Zentsuji, making it impossible to complete the construction project. Later in 1072, Zenban sent another petition to Toji, declaring that, although he had solicited donations in various provinces, he had not received enough to meet his needs. With the help of the provincial governor's office, the main temple scrambled to make up the shortfall, and Mandaraji was given firmer control over its lands and laborers. Thus, the lecture hall, the main hall, an auxiliary chapel, the monks' residence, and the graveyard chapel were all rebuilt. Zenban himself administered the project, supervising the transport of logs and the hiring of artisans. The story of Mandaraji's reconstruction suggests the increasing importance kanjin campaigns were assuming in temples' financial lives as well as the degree to which temples competed for scarce resources. Such competition plagued other temples as well: Toji itself was the defendant in a suit filed by monks of Mt. Koya, who accused the head temple of the Shingon school of diverting materials collected in an 1174 campaign for services of its own (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 7:2842-2843 [doc. 3668]). However, Mandaraji's plight outlined in Zenban's second petition illustrates that kanjin methods were inadequate to meet all the expenses of a major project. Other temples that collected donations through kanjin means, moreover, repeatedly complained of shortfalls, yet continued to venture campaigns. This

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raises the question of motivation: if kanjin campaigns were only marginally productive, then why did temples conduct them at all? As I will argue in detail in the next chapter, the answer probably lies in the nature of kanjin campaigns as efforts to convert the populace. They could be justified by either economic or religious aims —which, in fact, were virtually impossible to separate, since a temple's financial health was critical for its religious mission. Zenban himself is typical of kanjin hijiri in the late Heian and Kamakura periods. Whether he was originally a muen hijiri or just a monk from another temple, he was an outsider to begin with; the charismatic stranger who restores ruined temples is a standard figure in kanjin campaigns. Moreover, he supervised the entire construction project, much as Chogen did at Todaiji some two centuries later; and, like Chogen, he concerned himself with general temple finances as well as the construction project at hand. Such concentration of responsibility in the hands of the kanjin hijiri is generally considered characteristic of Kamakura kanjin efforts rather than of those of earlier periods (Nakanodo 1970: 407-409). Yet it should be recalled that in setsuwa episodes, Heian period hijiri built bridges and dug irrigation ditches as well as collecting donations for them. If these tales reflect reality, then the broad responsibilities of Chogen and Zenban were based on earlier Heian precedents. The Mandaraji evidence suggests that we do not have to wait until the Kamakura period for ambitious building projects funded at least in part by kanjin means. Another example is the project undertaken in 1137 by the small temple Komatsudera in Kawachi province to reconstruct buildings destroyed in a typhoon. The destruction of the temple is described by Kawachi no kuni Komatsudera engi:2 " O n the twelfth day of the ninth month of the fifth year of Daiji [1130], a typhoon blew down from the heavens. Provinces, villages, mountains, temples, chapels, and monks' lodgings could not escape destruction from the wind. At our temple, the Golden Hall, the pagoda, the belltower, the sutra repository, and the main gate were all blown to pieces" (1927:305-307).The text continues on a more cheerful note, explaining that seven years later the monk K a n ' e n addressed the other temple monks, urging them to canvass the public for donations to repair the buildings and restore images and sutras. A young woman of the Minamoto family, who lived in Eguchi village, pledged a substantial dona-

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tion. Others gave as well, in response to Kan'en's appeal, which asked for " a small tool or a scrap of wood" for the project, and promised to pray for the donors' enlightenment in their subsequent lives. The hogacho (donation rollbook) attached, dated 1139, lists seventy-seven gifts of cash, rice, and horses, as well as small gifts—too numerous to mention—of the "small tool or scrap of wood" variety. Donors are listed by name, village, office or social status, and gift. The majority of donors with identifiable residences lived in villages in the same region of Kawachi as the temple. Evidence from the late Heian period suggests that not all kanjin campaigns were ad hoc efforts, but some were carefully planned and executed by solicitors of considerable sophistication. Zenban's ability to attract help from the provincial government indicates that he was a man of some status and influence. In another case, when the kanjin solicitor Sairen sought donations for the casting of a bath cauldron and a bell at Koroji in Iga province in 1140 (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 11:300-301 [supp. doc. 315]), he issued an appeal written in classical Chinese; while he may have been either a Koroji monk or a muen hijiri, he was clearly a highly educated man. The very existence of a document suggests a degree of formality, systemization, and orderly keeping of records. Another indication of regularity is the creation of temple offices, daikanjinshiki, which held responsibility for campaigns. The earliest example I have found so far is dated 1154, when the retired emperor Toba appointed a monk named Ensho to that post at Nenbutsu Sanmaiin at Shitennoji, a major temple in Izumi province (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 11:309, 337 [supp. docs. 328, 384]). It is not certain what the post entailed, but the term is a legal one, indicating in this case an office with certain rights and duties. Ensho was given jurisdiction over temple offices and the administrative affairs of temple shoen, suggesting that he had broad responsibilities for financial matters. The increase in both the frequency and regularity of kanjin campaigns can be explained in part by economic developments in the Heian period, particularly its later years. These developments provided motivation and opportunity for kanjin campaigns not only by making them profitable, but by engendering a new way of thinking about the economy that permitted gifts to be used in pragmatic and productive ways.

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Kanjin and the Late Heian Economy By the late Heian period kanjin campaigns had become a regular function of temples and a standard method to supplement income from agricultural land. This phenomenon implies that substantial numbers of donors had surplus income to give to temples and that the late Heian economy was expanding rather than stagnant. Since this latter proposition flies in the face of much conventional wisdom about the period, it is worth examining in some detail. It will be helpful to draw comparisons with medieval Europe, where similar religious phenomena were associated with economic growth. It is generally accepted that sometime between the late Heian and the late Kamakura periods, the Japanese economy changed in several fundamental ways (Koizumi 1975:127-131; Wakita 1975: 322-333). To begin with, productivity was increased by land reclamation, doublecropping, and the use of draft animals. This increase produced a surplus that promoted the growth of village commerce. Commerce encouraged the development of a standard medium of exchange, and by the thirteenth century cash—in use in Nara and early Heian times but largely out of circulation by the eleventh century—was employed to purchase land and pay taxes. Although the thirteenth-century economy was by no means completely monetized, even peasants in remote regions were becoming accustomed to cash. There is evidence of its use even in remote Mutsu province by 1240 (Mori 1973:28). Though most scholars accept this general picture, there is considerable disagreement on timing. There are those, such as Nagahara Keiji, who argue that the development of markets and the use of money were Kamakura period phenomena, dependent on such circumstances as the bakufu's dispatch of jito to supervise the shoen (especially after 1221, when the Jokyu uprising necessitated firm bakufu controls over land), an increase in lawsuits over land rights, and the consequent growth of traffic and the exchange of goods (1970:79-80). Nagahara also maintains that, even in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, agricultural production was unstable, and fields were often allowed to go out of cultivation (1968:160). In other words, he depicts the economy of the late Heian and early Kamakura periods as stagnant and locally selfsufficient.

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Other scholars suggest a more dynamic picture for the earlier period. For example, Inagaki Yasuhiko argues that the productivity of existing fields was improved substantially in the late Heian period, especially in the Kinai (1975:168-182). According to Inagaki, the increase was due to small-scale land reclamation projects, efforts to keep arable land from going out of cultivation in time of drought or other disaster, and land management methods that encouraged the cultivation of even marginal fields. Most viable projects were modest ones that could be managed by local magnates and thus enhance their wealth and power. Methods of tax farming—which put control of land and labor into local hands —were also employed on both shóen and public lands. In addition, projects were sometimes carried out by peasant cooperative groups: for example, in the Kanji era (1087-1094) in Iga province, peasants from the Tódaiji shóen Kuroda moved onto land originally reclaimed by a Gang5ji monk. There they built irrigation ponds to divert river water, replacing an irrigation system that had used natural spring and mountain water. By the end of the twelfth century, a cultivated area of seventeen cho (roughly fifty acres) had grown to sixty chó. Inagaki argues that the project must have required official assistance but was managed by local residents. Projects such as these probably supported an expanding population even before the Kamakura period changes that Nagahara credits with economic growth. If Inagaki's arguments are valid, some of the fruits of these projects remained in local hands; otherwise there would have been little motivation for people to engage in such expensive undertakings. This surplus, moreover, must have facilitated the growth of local markets and stimulated the development of an appropriate medium of exchange. Coins actually had been minted in J a p a n in the Nara and early Heian periods, but the use of money could not have penetrated very deeply into society. Local economies were largely selfsufficient, and the court could simply demand that provincial subordinates send them special products—textiles, for example, or dried fish. As the shóen system developed, however, it seems that proprietors often received more goods than their households could use; thus these goods were sold for a profit at Kyoto markets (Mori 1973:18-22). Evidence from Konjaku monogatarishü indicates a lively commercial exchange between Kyoto and the provinces

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(Mori 1973:23; Nagazumi and Ikegami 1966-1968, 6:109-112 [book 29, no. 36]). This exchange seems to have taken place around the same time, the late eleventh century, that (in Inagaki's view) local agricultural productivity was rising. Ironically, it was just about that time that coins minted in Japan had largely gone out of circulation for a variety of reasons, including a shortage of copper and the problem of counterfeiting (Takizawa 1970:3-7). Since the end of the tenth century, however, coins from Sung dynasty China had been available to the Japanese. There is almost no documentary evidence of cash transactions from the end of the eleventh century until the mid-twelfth, although Takizawa Takeo argues that the private use of currency probably continued even during this period (1970:12). In the midtwelfth century, however, cash transactions reappear in the documents: land was sold for cash in 1150 in Yamato province, in 1162 at an unnamed place (but probably Yamashiro), and in 1176 in Kyoto (Mori 1973:27). It seems likely that Sung coins were used in these transactions. Evidence from kanjin campaigns, though very scanty, also points to the use of cash in the mid-twelfth century. In 1151 thirtythree donors contributed amounts ranging from thirty to fifty units of cash (the denomination is not specified) for the carving of an image of Shakyamuni at Horakuji in Tosa province (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 6:2283 [doc. 2736]). The list was placed inside the statue, a common storage place for documents of this type. Donors included laymen, lay women, and monks; several surnames are listed, but about half are of the Saeki family, an old court family that had taken root in Shikoku by the end of the eighth century. The rollbook recording donations to Komatsudera lists fifty-eight cash gifts, some of them quite substantial {Kawachi no kuni Komatsudera engi 1927:305-307). Although it has been suggested that the Komatsudera records are not completely authentic, the very simplicity of the Horakuji document implies its veracity. A listing of names and donations, it appears to be a hastily scribbled note, perhaps by the kanjin monk himself. In summary, scattered pieces of evidence indicate that by the middle of the twelfth century an economic revolution—involving increases in agricultural productivity and the use of money—was already well under way. It also appears that religious institutions, always sensitive to their own financial situation, took steps to

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exploit this revolution. Those institutions important enough to be shoen proprietors could profit from an increase in yields and a chance to market their own surplus proceeds. These and other institutions—provincial temples or lesser temples in Nara or Kyoto—also may have found it beneficial to tap a new source of support: the rural middle class of managers and prosperous cultivators. The new economic situation may help to explain the decisions of temples to conduct kanjiri campaigns for major projects in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries. That kanjin campaigns were conducted in provincial locations such as Sanuki, Kawachi, Iga, and Tosa suggests that, as productivity increased, some provincial residents accrued a surplus that they could donate to temples. Marc Bloch argues that in Europe in the mid-eleventh century there occurred an economic revolution marked by population growth, the development of a commercial economy, the appearance of cities and an urban middle class, and the transformation of forest and wasteland into cultivated land (1961:69-70). This revolution in some ways resembles that in late Heian Japan. Europe of the eleventh and twelfth centuries also witnessed religious phenomena similar to those in Japan of the same period: hermits who were also evangelists, a rash of church construction, and public campaigns for donations to support that construction. In contrast to the completely reclusive desert fathers of early Christianity, medieval European hermits worked among the people. It is thus difficult to define them as hermits, although that is the term in common use for them. According to Henrietta Leyser: "[Hermits] are not expected to try to reform the world, to become wandering preachers, to take upon themselves the care of lepers, prostitutes, the sick and the poor, to proclaim by word and deed that most existing ecclesiastical institutions were at worst rotten, at best inadequate. But this is what the new hermits of the eleventh and twelfth centuries did" (1984:1-2). Medieval European equivalents of the hijiri included Bernard of Tiron (ca. 1046-1117), who wandered through France preaching in villages and cities and at castles, and Robert of Arbrissel (ca. 1055-1117), who preached among the poor, especially prostitutes, and established leper colonies. Regular monks objected to the hermits, complaining that they were unkempt and unrespectable, that they unjustly criticized both monks and the

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secular clergy, and that they wandered about "trying to attract attention and donations" (Little 1978:76-83). No doubt these monks would have sympathized with the regular clergy at Chinkoji. Hermits' active involvement in charity and preaching, and their willingness to perform manual labor, however, brought them close to the people and won them lay patrons (Leyser 1984: 59-81). The eleventh and twelfth centuries were also a period of rapid church construction. Part of the reason may be that labor and materials were readily available: as Christopher Brooke points out, construction in Europe initially made use of the chronically underemployed labor that characterized subsistence agricultural society (1987:73-74). The search for means to pay for the projects resulted in economic growth. This process probably occurred in J a p a n as well, and the late-Heian development of village commerce and small-scale land reclamation that promoted temple building was no doubt further stimulated by demands for materials and labor for these construction projects. Church construction in medieval Europe was supported at times by public subscription campaigns. O n e campaign occurred in England in the late twelfth century, when donations were sought to rebuild St. Paul's cathedral in London (Graham 19451947:73-76). Those who subscribed to the fund or remembered it in their wills were rewarded with masses sung on their behalf by the priests of the diocese. Even if a donor died in mortal sin, he or she was promised burial in consecrated ground. Like the donors to the Komatsudera reconstruction in twelfth-century J a p a n , those who supported St. Paul's were offered rewards in their next life in return for their gifts. Lester Little sees such phenomena as indications of the development of a profit economy (1978:29-32). Little contrasts the profit economy in medieval Europe with the gift economy that preceded it (1978:3-6). In the sixth century a Burgundian king found a cache of gold, which he "fashioned into an altar canopy of wondrous size and great weight"; thwarted in his plan to send the canopy to the holy sepulchre in Jerusalem, the king gave it to a nearby church. In contrast, when tenth-century workmen unearthed a large store of gold while preparing to build a cathedral, the bishop at the head of the construction effort "rendered thanks to God, and then had [the gold] all assigned to the construction project." " I n the first instance," Little explains, "the

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reconversion of treasure into yet another form of treasure is typical of the gift economy that flourished in the centuries following the Germanic migrations. The exchange of treasure for building materials and labour in the second instance, however, signals new modes of thought and behaviour . . ." In a gift economy, goods and services are not assigned specific value, and the act of exchange is more important than the items exchanged. Coins, if they exist, are used as treasure—hoarded, displayed, or buried. In a profit economy, coins are used as money—as a tool to pay for goods and services that have set values. There is no hard line, of course, between the two types of economy: values can fluctuate in a profit economy, for example, in the practice of bargaining, and a gift requires one in return, usually of equal or greater value. This requirement holds even when the recipients are deities or the dead, to whom gifts are offered in anticipation "of a very real, indeed essential, return" (Little 1978:4). The increasing frequency of kanjin campaigns in late Heian J a p a n suggests that there, too, a profit economy was beginning to take hold. The use of money may, in fact, have been encouraged by kanjin hijiri; if not, the flexibility and convenience of money would certainly have made it welcome. Yet there was an ambivalent attitude toward the use of money that underscores the transitional nature of late Heian kanjin campaigns. Coins that fell into the possession of temples were not necessarily meant to be used as cash. The earliest Sung coins imported into J a p a n often found their way to temples, but they were probably meant to be kept as treasure, not spent to meet expenses. Archaeologists have found coins in small numbers at late Heian ritual sites: temples and shrines, graves, and mounds where sutras were buried (Yashima 1959:167-168). Devout Chinese Buddhists placed coins inside an image of Shakyamuni sent to J a p a n in 983 and later enshrined at Saga Seiryoji in Kyoto (Mori 1973:25). It appears that such coins had ritual rather than monetary value; thus their function was similar to that of the weapons and pottery found in prehistoric graves. Coins given to a temple in response to a kanjin campaign, however, were probably intended to serve as money, since kanjin requests usually asked for donations to finance particular projects. The difference between the coins in the Seiryoji image and those donated to kanjin efforts heralds an important change not only in the economy of late

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Heian Japan but also in the way in which people conceived of that economy. Donations to temples, in fact, link the two modes of thinking about exchange that Little has described for medieval Europe. In late Heian Japan, kanjin campaigns partook of both the gift and the profit economies. People offered temples cash donations—just as they had offered rice or other goods—in return for promises of salvation (the "essential return" that Little argues was expected for offerings to deities). Kanjin hijiri, in fact, committed the buddhas in advance to repay donors with rebirth in paradise or other spiritual benefits, no matter how small the gift. The promise of uniform benefit in itself suggests that it was the thought, not the amount, that mattered, an essential ingredient of gift economy thinking. At the same time, both hijiri and donors were aware that gifts would be pooled and spent to finance specific projects; these projects were generally announced in the kanjin appeal. To be successful, kanjin campaigns had to be motivated by profit economy thinking, which saw money primarily as a tool to meet the expenses of timber, tile, and labor, while the promise of salvation remained without a set value, lest giving be discouraged and the essential religious purpose of kanjin campaigns be destroyed. The skill of kanjin hijiri in negotiating this narrow transitional path permitted their temples to find support outside the shoen system and offered the promise of Buddhist salvation to far greater numbers of people than had ever hoped for it before. By the end of the Heian period, both temples and state authorities had discovered that kanjin could be a useful tool for extending their power and influence. The characteristic of kanjin campaigns that made them so useful was that donations were perceived to be voluntary. They may not always have been so, especially when political authorities added their imprimatur to a campaign. Yet the perception that people donated willingly to kanjin campaigns implied that they also willingly accepted the authority of the temples that conducted them and the lay powers that supported them, a valuable tool for both temples and political leaders. Put in somewhat different terms, religious and lay authorities tried to persuade people that they were bound not by hierarchy and compulsion, but by the ties of communitas. It would not be accurate, however, to look at kanjin as a cyni-

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cal effort to keep people under control. A close examination indicates that the monks and hijiri who conceived, planned, and executed kanjin campaigns did so with the spiritual welfare of donors in mind as well as the welfare of the temple. These benefits could be equated in the view of the monks involved in the revival of N a r a Buddhism in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; the link between the two was the temple's need for the wherewithal to carry out its religious mission. Thus Nara monks had strong religious motivations to seek donations from the public. In the next chapter, I will examine these motivations, along with the aims, appeals, and methods of a typical kanjin campaign that spanned the transition from the Heian to the Kamakura age.

Three ALMS FOR KASAGI TEMPLE

The dedication of a small offering shall without fail enable you to see the Buddha, hear his teachings, aim at enlightenment, andfulfill that aim. —Sosho 1960:238.

T h u s in 1196 the distinguished N a r a monk Jokei sought donations for rites to dedicate relics of the B u d d h a at Kasagidera, the small mountain temple to which he had retreated several years before. T h e 1196 request was part of a kanjin campaign conducted by the temple between 1182 and 1203. T h e campaign was intended to revitalize the temple, and donations were earmarked for religious services, new images, building repair and construction, and the support of monks' daily lives. In exploring the Kasagidera effort, I have two purposes: first, to examine the aims, methods, solicitors, and donors of a representative campaign that spanned the end of the Heian and the beginning of the K a m a k u r a period and, second, to assess the role of kanjin campaigns in the revival of N a r a Buddhism. I chose the Kasagidera campaign for several reasons. While both large and small temples conducted kanjin campaigns, it was the small, financially insecure ones such as Kasagidera that did so the most frequently. T h e campaign, furthermore, is comparatively well documented for one of its type. Eight written requests for donations have been preserved in Miroku nyorai kannosho, compiled by the thirteenth-century Todaiji monk Sosho (1960:234-243). Although it is not difficult to find information on the kanjin efforts of large, powerful temples, most small temples' campaigns are documented by one written request at best. M o r e often, we learn of their kanjin efforts through laconic inscriptions on images or references in documents that pertain to other matters. T h e Kasagidera requests, explicit on the goals, methods, and religious motivations

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of the campaign, can help us to assess similar factors in other kanjin efforts. In addition, Kasagidera's campaign occurred at an important transitional time in J a p a n e s e history. T h e years between 1182 and 1203 embraced the Genpei war, in which warriors led by M i n a m o t o Yoritomo defeated their rivals to become the param o u n t military clan in J a p a n , and Yoritomo's establishment of a warrior government, the K a m a k u r a bakufu, as a parallel structure to the civilian government of the emperor and his court. Once the bakufu became a decisive force in land tenure decisions, temples had new patrons to solicit (and to please) as well as a more complex situation on the shöen that necessitated the search for these patrons. Kasagidera's campaign in this transitional time was itself transitional in nature: sharing elements of both small-scale efforts and large, organized, publicly recognized campaigns conducted by m a j o r temples, it can help to shed light on both. Finally, Kasagidera was one of m a n y small temples that maintained close ties with the great Buddhist institutions of N a r a and their monks, including activists in the N a r a revival movement. T h e temple's horizon (main image) was of Miroku, one focus of the revival. N a r a monks retreated to Kasagi for meditation and ascetic practice, and Jökei, a leader of the revival, secluded himself there for fifteen years, taking charge of the kanjin campaign. Examining the kanjin campaign in which Jökei played so large a part can help to explain both the thinking of this seminal figure in the N a r a revival and the ideology of the revival movement. T h e appropriation of kanjin m e a n s by leaders of the N a r a revival adds significance to the kanjin campaign as a method of transmitting Buddhist teachings. T h e connection between alms collection and the revived movement rests on three interconnected elements in medieval J a p a n e s e Buddhist doctrine and practice: the concepts of höben and restoration, and the emphasis on community a m o n g monks and lay believers. H ö b e n , or expedient means, according to the Lotus sütra and other texts, was the principle that stipulated different religious practices for those at different stages of spiritual development. Any practice that guided a person along the path to Buddhist enlightenment was justified as höben, no matter how indulgent or even bizarre it might seem to most observers. H ö b e n legitimized religious eclecticism, permitting revivalist leaders both to d e m a n d

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of themselves strict adherence to the precepts that bound the clergy and to reach out to lay believers by advocating simple means of obtaining salvation. The concept of restoration is also crucial to understanding the way that Nara revival monks employed the kanjin campaign. The monks were attempting, first of all, to restore the purity and the power of Buddhism that they believed had existed in Shakyamuni's day. This task involved the restoration of monastic virtue (the precepts), the construction and reconstruction of Buddhism's physical edifice (temples), and the creation of a community that included the simplest lay believer as well as the most sophisticated and virtuous monk. The need for restoration must have seemed acute in the late twelfth century, when political and economic changes created both challenge and opportunity for the Nara monasteries, heretofore able to rely on their old aristocratic connections. Victor Turner has correlated societal crisis, the genesis of religions, and communitas (1974:250-251). He points out that "under favorable circumstances some structural form, generated long ago from a moment of communitas, may be almost miraculously liquefied into a living form of communitas again. This is what revitalistic or revivalistic religious movements . . . aim to do —to restore the social bond of their communicants to the pristine vigor of that religion in its days of generative crisis and ecstasy." In attempting to restore the Buddhism of Shakyamuni's day, the Nara monks were aiming at the regeneration of communitas within the "structural form" of organized religion. This aim is evidenced by the stress on community within the monastic organization—the deepest meaning, perhaps, of the emphasis on the precepts that bound monk to monk. It can also be seen in the attempt to broaden that community to include all humankind, the ultimate aim of kanjin campaigns.

The Temple in History and Legend Kasagidera is located about twelve miles northeast of Nara in southern Yamashiro province. Atop Kasagi mountain, which overlooks the Kizu river that flows to Nara, the temple was isolated from the great urban monasteries but accessible to their monks. Kasagidera was founded, according to legend, when heav-

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enly beings engraved an image of Miroku on a cliff at the m o u n tain. According to the version of this tale that appears in the twelfth-century collection Konjaku monogatarishu, Prince O t o m o (648-672), hunting on horseback in the mountains, suddenly found himself trapped on a ledge so narrow that he could neither dismount nor turn his horse around. Expecting to die, the prince was seized with fear: Lamenting, he said, "If you are here, kami of the mountain, please save my life. If you do I will carve an image of Miroku on the face of this cliff." Then, in response to his prayer, the kami enabled the horse to back out of the narrow place to a wider spot. The prince dismounted and tearfully fell on his knees to pray. So that he could find the place later, he took off the hemp hat that he had been wearing and put it down, and then he returned home. One or two days later, he went back to find his hat. Descending from the mountaintop, he skirted the cliff and arrived at its foot. He looked upward, but his view could not reach the top of the cliff, which seemed to be lost in the clouds. With anguish in his heart, the prince gazed at the cliff, realizing that he could not carve an image of Miroku on its face. Then heavenly beings took pity on him and helped him. While a black cloud obscured everything and made it dark as night, they carved the Buddha in an instant. In the darkness the prince could hear the spatter of many small stones. Presently the cloud lifted, the mist cleared, and the sky brightened. When the prince gazed up at the cliff, he saw a splendid image of Miroku engraved there. (Nagazumi and Ikegami 1966-1968:88-90 [book 11, no. 30]) T h e legend explains both the n a m e of the mountain and its temple ( " h e m p h a t " [kasa] plus " t o p u t " \oki] becomes Kasagi) and the engraving of the image, exalting temple and image through connections to the imperial family and to supernatural beings. T h e image was destroyed when battle fires scorched the cliff in the fourteenth century, but its alcove remains, attesting to its size (fifteen meters in height). K a m a k u r a period copies in painting and sculpture indicate that the figure stood on a lotuspetal platform, its hands making signs (mudra) of comfort and reassurance. T h e image, which apparently portrayed Miroku as a b u d d h a rather than as a bodhisattva, signified Miroku's future mission of salvation. Art historians (e.g., Shimizu 1973:97) have determined that the image actually dates from the eighth century, and it seems likely that the temple was founded at the same time.

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Kasagidera's mountain location made it an important center of Shugendo (mountain ascetic practice). Generally speaking, mountains were regarded as sacred in the pre-Buddhist Japanese tradition—perhaps for their grandeur, perhaps because they were the source of streams that fed the rice fields, perhaps because they were mysterious and dangerous, and thus thought to be the homes of numina called kami. When temples were built in the mountains, they borrowed this sanctity and added it to their own as Buddhist holy places. This process may be one meaning represented by Kasagidera's founding legend, in which the kami's compassionate deed compels an act of Buddhist faith in response. The sanctity of physical locations was often enhanced by a process of identification, in which the kami of a place was said to be a particular buddha or bodhisattva or the place itself was said to be a mandala or a Buddhist heaven. 1 Hijiri were drawn to Kasagi mountain because it was in itself regarded as sacred space, just as were other nearby mountains such as Kinpu, Kumano, and Omine. By the early Kamakura period, in fact, Kasagi and Kinpu were identified in at least one Shugendo source with the outer and inner realms of Miroku's Tosotsu heaven as well as with the taizdkai (womb-store world) and the kongokai (diamond world), the two halves of the universe as depicted in the mandala of esoteric Buddhism (Sakurai, Hagiwara, and Miyata 1975:136-139). 2 According to the source in question, a collection of lore and traditions called Shozan engi, there were thirty lodgings for pilgrims at Kasagi, and at one time or another five hundred ascetics—manifestations of Miroku or Kannon—had practiced austerities at the mountain. The text suggests that the ascetics spent their time meditating on such potent Buddhist icons as the Lotus sutra and images of buddhas in the esoteric pantheon and dodging the evil represented by the mountain's demon, a hungry black serpent one hundred feet in length that was "overjoyed whenever it saw a person." Pilgrimages to sacred mountains were popular at the Heian court, and Kasagi, like its neighbor Mt. Kinpu, attracted its share of aristocratic notice. The tenth-century court lady Sei Shonagon mentions Kasagidera in a list of temples in her famous Pillow Book (1977, 2:103), and in 1118 Fujiwara Munetada recorded a visit to the temple in his diary Chuyuki (1915-1916, 5:82 [1118/9/27]). Munetada and his companions dedicated sutras before the image

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of Miroku, praying for the souls of their ancestors and the late emperor. Other distinguished pilgrims to Kasagidera were Fujiwara Yorimichi, regent to the throne, who visited during the M a n j u era (1024-1027), and Retired Emperor Go Shirakawa, who came in the Angen era (1175-1176) (Sosho 1960:242).

Jokei and the Kasagidera Kanjin

Campaign

Despite such attention, the temple seems to have been poorly endowed. It must have held some land, but the earliest mention of Kasagidera holdings that I have found is in 1174, in a reference to a lawsuit over hemp fields of unspecified dimensions in an unspecified location (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 10:174 [supp. doc. 121]). The temple was small and probably did not have many monks to support, but revenue for services and construction projects had to come from somewhere. Like other temples of its type, Kasagidera sought that revenue through a kanjin campaign, which was initiated in 1182. The campaign began as a limited effort, probably supervised by the handful of monks who lived at the temple. The names of three monks besides Jokei appear on the kanjin requests: Shincho, Nyokyo, and Kanshun. We know little about them, except that Shincho also signed a kanjin appeal in 1201 for Gangoji (Sosho 1960:246-247). If they actually wrote the kanjin requests—and this has been called into question—they were learned men, well versed in Buddhist lore and doctrine, and capable of expressing their ideas in classical Chinese. The three men seem to have been resident monks at the temple rather than muen hijiri who had hired themselves out for temporary kanjin work. However, if the campaign followed standard patterns, some of the legwork must have been performed by muen hijiri, perhaps those who practiced ascetic regimens on the mountain. At first it seems that a modest band of twelve, led by NyokyS himself, collected gifts and recorded each donor's name in a rollbook. Even though donations were to be sought from "supporters both near and f a r " (Sosho 1960:235), the limited goals of the early campaign suggest that it was conducted fairly close to home. The fact that written appeals were issued indicates careful planning and coordination, however, and Jokei's participation— which began at least in 1192 but possibly before—lent the cam-

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paign prestige and resulted in large donations. Finally, at the end of the campaign, the court was asked to sanction the most ambitious project, the rebuilding of the Raido (worship hall). Such factors differentiate the campaign from small-scale efforts conducted by muen hijiri. Although the campaign as a whole resulted in a complete renovation of the old temple, the objectives of each request were quite specific. The effort began in 1182 with a search for offerings to support religious ceremonies described simply as nenbutsu services. In the next year funds were sought for rites in which monks would chant the Hachimyo darani sutra and contemplate Miroku (Sosho 1960:236, 234). 3 (Both efforts are described in later kanjin requests.) The earliest kanjin requests, dated 1185, specify offerings of rice to feed the monks performing these services. In 1188 monks sought donations to construct a small pagoda and to make a sandalwood image of Miroku to be placed inside it. The campaign might have remained a modest one had it not been for Jokei, a monk of great talent who abandoned a successful ascent through the monastic hierarchy to live in retreat at the mountain temple. Jokei was born in 1155, the grandson of the counselor of state Shinzei (Fujiwara Michinori), whose involvement in the Heiji uprising cost him his life in 1159. 4 Jokei was sent to Nara in 1162, and three years later, at the age of ten, he took Buddhist orders. The details of his early monastic life are not clear, but it is likely that he studied Hosso doctrine under his uncle, Kakuken of Kofukuji. It is not known when Jokei developed his interest in restoring Buddhism's framework—its tenets, monastic precepts, images, and buildings. But it appears that throughout his life as a monk he involved himself enthusiastically in the work of restoration, both spiritual and physical, beginning with efforts to revive the precepts at Kofukuji and culminating in kanjin campaigns at Kofukuji as well as at Kasagidera (Yoshida 1972:200; Yasuda 1983:69). Jokei's interest in Kasagidera dates from 1182, when he vowed to copy the Lotus sutra and dedicate it at the temple, a project that took him eleven years to complete (Yoshida 1972: 182). He may have been involved in the temple's kanjin campaign almost from its inception; perhaps he is the "certain holy m a n " who had helped to plan the campaign in 1183, according to one of the kanjin requests (Sosho 1960:234; Kamata and Tanaka 1971:

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463). It may even have been Jokei who wrote the kanjin requests signed by Shincho, Nyokyo, and Kanshun (Kamata and Tanaka 1971:463; Tomimura 1977:194), though there seems to be no particular reason why he should not have signed them himself. While still at Kofukuji, Jokei attracted the attention of leading figures at the capital in Kyoto. An accomplished orator, he was asked to perform the eight lectures on the Lotus sutra at Hojoji in 1191 at the service on the anniversary of the death of the eldest son of K u j o Kanezane, regent to the throne and the most powerful civilian aristocrat in the nation. When the regent visited Nara later that year to survey the progress of reconstruction at Kofukuji, Jokei presided over the reading of sutras at the temple's Nanendo. In 1192 Jokei decided to move to Kasagidera, and over Kanezane's opposition he did so in the fall of the next year. In explaining why he wished to retreat to the mountain temple, Jokei cited a vow he had made to the Daimyojin (kami) of Kasuga shrine, in which he announced a desire to be reborn in Miroku's Tosotsu heaven. Thus one reason Jokei chose Kasagidera was his devotion to Miroku, the temple's focus of worship. In the isolation of the mountain, moreover, he must have found a peaceful world suited to study and the keeping of the clerical precepts. Another motivation for withdrawal may have been his concern with corruption at Kofukuji as well as the danger of too much involvement in politics—a conclusion he may have drawn from his grandfather's unfortunate fate. In retreating to Kasagidera, Jokei was following a time-honored pattern of withdrawal from ordinary monastic affairs, ostensibly in favor of study, meditation, and concerted effort to follow the Buddhist path. This pattern suggests the extent to which important temples, once a means of abandoning the world, had become themselves "the world." Jokei's withdrawal was partial at best, and he maintained contacts with those in high political office; from his mountain retreat, moreover, he helped to shape the Nara revival by promoting central elements in its outreach to lay believers: the veneration of relics, faith in the Lotus sutra, and the worship of Miroku. Two projects at Kasagidera seem to have been close to Jokei's heart. These were the restoration of the eight lectures on the Lotus sutra, the ceremony that had won him fame in Kyoto, and a dedi-

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cation service for relics of the Buddha. Jokei personally signed kanjin requests for these projects, something he did not even do for the reconstruction of the Raido, the major undertaking in terms of expense. Support for biannual lectures was sought first in 1193 and again in 1196. According to the written requests issued on these occasions, the lectures were an ancient tradition at the temple, initiated in 794. When the temple found itself short of materials, however, it could not continue with the ceremonies. The requests lament the monks' torn clothes and broken bowls, and the temple's missing flags and canopies (Sosho 1960:237-240). In the two kanjin requests that he signed in 1196, Jokei outlined his intentions to expand the temple's services and its physical framework (Sosho 1960:238-240). H e planned to construct a thirteen-tiered pagoda which would contain copies of the three-part Mahayana sutra (the Lotus, Dai Hannya, and Shinjikan sutras), relics of the Buddha, and images of the bodhisattva M o n j u and the four heavenly kings. Sixteen monks would be chosen to conduct the initial services, a recitation in abbreviated fashion of the Lotus sutra; recitations of the other two sutras would be added later. In addition, Jokei planned a thousand-day kuyo (dedication service) for the relics, issuing a kanjin request that sought ten bowls of rice a day for the duration of the service. It is no surprise that Jokei concentrated his efforts on the Lotus sutra and relics, since both were objects of widespread veneration in the late Heian and Kamakura periods. Ideas from the Lotus sutra informed poetry and painting as well as religious worship, and popular legends told of oxen or serpents reborn as humans through the sutra's miraculous power. 5 In addition, the Lotus sutra was often buried in anticipation of the advent of Miroku as the next Buddha. As for relics—fragments believed to be Shakyamuni Buddha's ashes—they were an apt expression of the central urge of the Nara revival, to return to the purity of the Buddha's time. Both the Lotus sutra and relics had meaning for the lay believer: the teachings of the sutra opened the way for all to attain buddhahood, and relics provided a tangible, physical reminder of the founder of Buddhism. Thus both were useful tools to link the Nara revival with potential lay supporters. The major building project at Kasagidera was the reconstruc-

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tion of the Raido, the hall from which the Miroku image was worshiped. According to one of the kanjin requests issued in 1203, the old building was too small to hold the people that the temple's revival had attracted: " W h e n monks and laity throng to this garden of majestic Buddhist ceremonies, there is no room to accommodate them all, and many are so far away that they cannot see or h e a r " (Sosho 1960:240). Moreover, worshipers inside the old Raido could not see the entire image, probably because it was too large and too close to the building to permit a full view. T h e project was either too expensive or too important to rely entirely on public goodwill; the court was asked to recognize the project by granting the temple a high official rank, thus making it easier to appeal for donations. T h e kanjin campaign seems to have been successful. The Raido was completed in 1204, with gifts including gold dust from the shogun Minamoto Sanetomo (Hayakawa 1923, 2:9 [1204/4/ 10]). In remarks written for the building's dedication, Jokei thanked donors for help with the construction of a sutra library and a pagoda (Sosho 1960:232). Moreover, documents indicate that at the end of the campaign Kasagidera held rights to several parcels of land (Takeuchi 1971-1991, 2:216-218, 349-352 [docs. 902, 1063, 1064], 3:15-16 [doc. 1204]). It seems likely that some or all of these were donations to the kanjin effort. One holding was H a n n y a manor in Iga province, consisting of three cho eight tan (roughly 9.4 acres) of paddy and dry fields donated by a local landholder. Rights to this land, including tax exemptions and immunity from entry by provincial officals, were confirmed in 1199 by the retired emperor's office. Kasagidera also had rights to an unspecified amount of land in Yamashiro province, a gift of Retired Emperor Go Shirakawa, and to Sugimoto manor in Yamato province, cited in a document of 1201 as a gift of Hachijo In (1136-1211), daughter of Emperor Toba. 6 Welcome as such gifts were, they were not the sole aim of the campaign, as I will argue later in this chapter. Rather, the Kasagidera monks sought and expected to receive small gifts. Like kanjin solicitors from other temples, they sought help from every quarter, mustering the blessings of elites and the sanction of precedent to attract gifts from everyone. In seeking alms, moreover, kanjin solicitors preached to potential donors. What they told people-

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about images, temples, miracles, and the value of charity-helped to produce vital and compelling forms of religion that involved all segments of the population.

Telling Kasagidera's Stoiy in the Kanjin Requests The search for donations required that kanjin hijiri appeal directly to potential converts in terms they could accept and understand. They had not only to expound simplified Buddhist teachings, but also to connect these teachings with existing popular concepts. Rather than asking people to discard their old religious beliefs and practices, hijiri recast these elements and combined them with Buddhist teachings, enabling ordinary people to accept a religious system that otherwise would have seemed both foreign and intellectually formidable. For most people in twelfth-century J a p a n , religion was firmly grounded in things they could touch and see. The kami venerated from prehistoric times were thought to inhabit particular physical locations such as great trees or mountains, and often there was no clear distinction between the kami and its habitat. In other words, a sacred place could be a kami in itself. In theory Buddhism took a far more complex view of physical phenomena, but in practice special importance was given to the physical components of a temple, including its setting, its buildings, and its sculpture and paintings. These elements became part of the temple's "story," a weave of legend, fantasy, hyperbole, and factual records. The historical truth of all these elements is not at issue, since the importance of the story lay not in its veracity, but in its ability to generate an image of the temple that motivated hijiri to devote themselves to its causes and lay believers to offer their support. Medieval kanjin hijiri frequently told their temples' stories in attempt to open the pockets of potential givers. In their kanjin requests, temples often claimed miraculous origins and connections with exalted figures of both past and present. It was a rare temple that did not cite imperial visits, miraculous origins, or connections with saints of Buddhist history such as Shotoku Taishi, Gyoki, or En no Gyoja. In his study of the thirteenth-century setsuwa collection Hasedera Kannon genki, Nagai Yoshinori argues that its tales were composed, embellished, and circulated by kanjin hijiri (1953:20-22).

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According to Nagai, hijiri attracted donors by adding concrete details to accounts that in earlier versions had been vague and sketchy. Nagai also points out that many miracle tales appear in different collections in almost identical form, the only difference being the name of the temple where the miracle occurred. This fact suggests that hijiri used the tides as raw material for kanjin purposes. For example, the founding legend of Chokyuji, a Yamato temple that issued a kanjin request in 1208, closely resembles that of Kasagidera. When Son'amidabutsu sought donations to rebuild Chokyuji, he recounted the tale of the courtier Fujiwara Yoshitsugu (726-777), caught in a tight spot one day when he was out on a hunting expedition. Yoshitsugu prayed to the bodhisattva Kannon for assistance, promising to carve an image and build a temple at the site. Returning later, he used his bow to carve an image of Kannon, which he worshiped night and day. Sometime afterward he took scraps from the log used to make the famous Hasedera Kannon and carved a smaller image of the bodhisattva, enshrining it in a chapel he had built there and thereby founding the temple (Takeuchi 1971-1991, 3:370 [doc. 1771]). Another type of Buddhist literature that may have been used in kanjin appeals was the engi, the form of the temple's story sanctioned by the institution. In addition to factual material such as lists of buildings, images, and ceremonies, engi typically include miracle tales centered on the temple's main image and exaggerate connections with the imperial family or famous religious figures. In his discussion of this genre, Sakurai Tokutaro suggests an evangelistic purpose for such passages (Sakurai, Hagiwara, and Miyata 1975:467, 472). H e points out that in the Kamakura period engi served as guidebooks for pilgrims visiting famous Nara temples. Illustrated texts (emaki) were displayed at festivals and other occasions when large numbers of people gathered. Surely alms were collected on these occasions. Like setsuwa, engi probably supplied material for kanjin hijiri and may have been embellished by them as well. Kasagidera engi was not recorded until the sixteenth century, but the temple's story had begun to take shape by the end of the twelfth century, when Kasagidera launched its kanjin campaign and issued written requests (Kasagidera engi 1913:87-111). Kasagidera's story—the legends and miracles that made it a holy place— was an important component of the kanjin appeals, since it helped

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to explain why people should favor the temple and to make concrete the spiritual benefits promised to potential donors. The veneration of Miroku lay at the heart of Kasagidera's story and served as an appropriate symbol for constructing the temple's future through reconstructing its past. As Shakyamuni's successor and image, Miroku was an apt focus for those who not only yearned for original Buddhism but also sought a Salvationist faith to answer the needs of a new age. Portrayed as a bodhisattva in the present as well as a buddha for the future, Miroku symbolized the promise of salvation for both the individual and the entire world. 7 The bodhisattva Miroku was thought to welcome the faithful to his Tosotsu heaven after death, just as Amida welcomed believers to his Pure Land. O n achieving buddhahood some billions of years in the future, Miroku would descend to earth to preach, enlightening all those reborn there at that fortunate time. Belief in Miroku as either a bodhisattva or a buddha fulfilled the individual's longing for personal salvation after death. In addition, the prediction of Miroku's advent modified the dread of mappo, since the coming of a new buddha assured the end of bad times, an eventual upturn in the cosmic cycle. Kasagidera's kanjin requests draw on both aspects of Miroku-as-savior, coloring the promise of salvation with the legend of the supernatural origin of the Miroku image, its connection to an imperial prince, and the miracles and power attributed to it. The image exalted the temple, kanjin hijiri said, winning it patrons and making it rival India's holy places (Sosho 1960:238, 240). Donations to Miroku's "incomparable place of miracles" would result in appropriate rewards: "Those of us who sympathize with the temple and support it with alms will be reborn together in the Chisoku [Tosotsu] heaven and assemble before Jison [Miroku]. O n the day of his advent we will descend to earth along with h i m " (Sosho 1960:234-235). Thus gift and ultimate result were defined concretely and were organically linked. The kanjin appeals also emphasized the temple's connections with important people and institutions. According to tales recounted in detail in Kasagidera engi and cited in the kanjin requests, the eighth-century prelate Roben made a pilgrimage to Kasagi during his search for materials for the construction of Todaiji, and his disciple Jitchu performed austerities at Kasagidera that were rewarded with a vision of the Tosotsu heaven—or perhaps it was a

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miraculous visit (Sosho 1960:241). The brief references to these episodes in the kanjin appeals suggest that these important elements of the temple's story were already well known to potential donors. The kanjin appeals also bragged of the visits of Fujiwara Yorimichi and Go Shirakawa. Such visits, paid by elites that claimed ritual as well as political authority, validated the temple within the politicoreligious system of the Japanese state.

If You Donate Just a Little . . . From whom did the Kasagidera monks seek donations? Nyokyo and Shincho said that they would first appeal to longtime supporters, but if contributions were insufficient, other donors would be sought. Both the 1193 request and Jokei's request of 1196 asked for donations from lay supporters. This evidence suggests that there was already a network of support on which the temple could rely but that contributions from others would have to be found as well. What of the donors' wealth and social status? We know that the shogun and perhaps a retired emperor and an imperial princess gave large contributions to the Kasagidera campaign. Support from exalted figures was sometimes explicitly sought. In 1196, for example, Jokei vowed to dedicate the eight lectures on the Lotus sutra to the grand shrine at Ise. Since the shrine's chief kami was Amaterasu, claimed as ancestor by the imperial family, the vow was probably an attempt to attract significant donations from the court. The request for high court rank for the temple in conjunction with the rebuilding of the Raido may perhaps be seen in the same light. Although the documents contain no direct information concerning donors' status, they do provide some clues, albeit contradictory ones. Written in Chinese characters and full of difficult terms and concepts, the kanjin requests were impossible for anyone but the well educated to read. But traveling hijiri (such as the twelve men mentioned in the Kasagidera kanjin requests) may have read them aloud to potential donors or used them as texts from which appropriate exhortations could be taken. Setsuwa collections, which probably furnished material for popular evangelists' sermons (Ury 1979:2), were also sometimes written in Chinese and sometimes contained terminology as abstruse as that of

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the kanjin requests. An example is the eleventh-century collection Hokke genki (Inoue and Osone 1974:44-219; Dykstra 1983). Despite difficulties and obscurities throughout the tales, their major theme—devotion to the Lotus sutra—was simple enough to understand. Nor would even simple people have misunderstood the basic premises of the kanjin requests: the founding miracle of the temple, its sacredness to Miroku, and the disproportionate reward for a small donation. The emphasis on small donations was common to kanjin campaigns. Hijiri often asked for specks of dust, twigs, small tools, or half a penny, in phrasing reminiscent of the words of Shomu when seeking donations to construct Todaiji in the eighth century. Such requests were made by the hijiri who sought donations to Chinkoji in 1075, to Todaiji in 1181, and to Daianji in 1204 (Takeuchi 1963-1976, 3:1122-1125 [doc. 1110]; Todaiji zoku yoroku 1907:200; Takeuchi 1971-1991, 3:140 [doc. 1449]). The Kasagidera appeals also specify suitable small donations. Unlike dust and twigs, these donations were of practical value and were probably both expected and welcome. Shincho said that because the monks' begging bowls had been broken, they would like to have new ones cast. Kanshun requested a small contribution such as a begging bowl or a tenth of a monme (thirty-five to forty grams of an unspecified material, possibly gold dust); alms could be given according to the ability of the donor. Both Nyokyo and Shincho asked for a small gift of one sho (a little under two quarts) of rice per month for as long as the donor was able to give. I to Kazuhiko argues that the people most likely to respond to Shincho's request of one sho per month for, say, a year were shoen officials or small holders (1980:318). T h e amount of one sho, which appears in kanjin documents of other temples, appears to have been a standard donation; it was considered enough to feed one monk for a day (Collcutt 1981:221). Since the Kasagidera requests do not explicitly address the question of audience, perhaps evidence from another kanjin effort can shed some light on the matter. A donation rollbook for Katsuragawa Myooin in Omi province records the kanjin efforts of a single day in 1272 (Takeuchi 1971-1991, 15:23 [doc. 11110]). The rollbook lists fifty-six gifts of cash and rice, including five hundred mon (a unit of coinage) from the jito, two hundred mon from the kumon (a shoen official), and one hundred mon from another

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kumon. The record does not specify their estate, but perhaps they were all officials of the nearby Katsuragawa manor. Most of the gifts were in rice. Of the thirty-one people who gave one sho apiece, most are listed with neither office nor surname, suggesting that they were at best small holders. The Kasagidera monks, in requesting small gifts such as one sho, a tenth of a monme, or a begging bowl, probably aimed their campaign at a broad range of potential donors, beginning with local notables and including small holders like the ones who gave to Myooin. Of course, the monks hoped to attract substantial contributions (thus they asked givers to donate every month), but they were realistic enough to accept small, one-time-only gifts. Indeed, the emphasis on small gifts in the requests of other temples suggests that we can draw similar conclusions about kanjin campaigns in general. Gifts were sought from anyone who could give even a tiny amount, which probably meant all segments of society except the destitute.

Why Hold a Kanjin

Campaign?

Why did the Kasagidera monks choose to conduct a broad-based kanjin campaign and to continue it for over twenty years? The most obvious answer is that the temple was in need. Like most religious institutions of the time, it depended on income from agricultural land. Competition for land rights was stiff, and Kasagidera was not a large or influential temple. T h u s when funds were needed to reconstruct buildings, Kasagidera may have found itself in the same position Daianji was in when in 1204 it conducted a kanjin campaign because it could not live on the income from its shoen (Takeuchi 1971-1991, 3:140 [doc. 1449]). But there is also evidence that by 1201 the temple was hardly in dire straits. In that year Jokei was able to commend five koku (about twenty-five bushels) of rice from H a n n y a manor and the produce of one cho in Sugimoto manor as votive offerings to Kasuga shrine (Takeuchi 1971-1991, 3:15-16 [doc. 1204]). If the temple was not in immediate need, however, why was the campaign continued vigorously for two or three more years? A plausible explanation rests on long-term economic considerations. J o a n R . Piggott has pointed out that as early as the 1180s and 1190s, even Todaiji found it increasingly difficult to maintain

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a steady flow of revenue from shoen to monastery (1982:74-76). The problem was that real control of shoen income was falling into local hands. By the mid-thirteenth century, large institutions such as T5daiji began to seek alternatives, such as the collection of tolls at barriers. For smaller temples such as Kasagidera, the crisis may have come earlier and been more acute. During the period of the kanjin campaign, in fact, Kasagidera became involved in a dispute over rights to Hannya manor. When provincial officials attempted to levy taxes on the fields, Kasagidera asked the retired emperor's office to intervene. An edict issued in 1199 confirmed the temple's rights, declaring that Hannya manor was Kasagidera's territory (ryo) in perpetuity (Takeuchi 1971-1991, 2:349352 [docs. 1063, 1064]). In addition to its holdings in other provinces, the temple's own compound was subject to violation. A petition to the court dated 1197 complained that cultivators from a neighboring manor had cleared land and planted crops on temple precincts without authorization (Takeuchi 1971-1991, 2:216-218 [doc. 902]). Incidents such as these may help to explain the increasing frequency and regularity of kanjin efforts in the Kamakura period, involving not only small institutions such as Kasagidera but also larger ones such as Kofukuji, and Kongobuji on Mt. Koya. Monks may have perceived the entire economic foundation of Buddhist monasteries as insecure. In short, the times must have seemed ripe for new methods and new supporters, especially local warriors and small holders, the backbone of rural society. Attempts to exploit local wealth and power made even more sense than before. But economics alone cannot explain why temples undertook kanjin campaigns. The amounts collected were too small and the effort too great and too prone to failure. Throughout the Kamakura period, temples complained of shortfalls or other hindrances to kanjin campaigns, and some found it more advantageous to seek government help in the form of new taxes. Others, however, continued to depend on the populace at large, perhaps because a broad-based campaign had certain advantages from a purely religious perspective. In the days of early Indian Buddhism—seen by the Nara revivalist clergy as a golden age—monks had sustained themselves by begging from householders. The kanjin solicitors may have seen themselves in a similar light, as alms seekers who

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were helping to restore Shakyamuni's past and to construct Miroku's future. Another possibility lies in the desire of the Nara-revival monks to meet the challenge of Honen's teachings. In the Kofukuji petition of 1205, written at Kasagidera just after the successful culmination of the kanjin campaign, Jokei attacked Honen's central argument, that reciting the Amida nenbutsu was the only efficacious means to salvation (Kamata and Tanaka 1971:31-42; Morrell 1983:20-38). This argument, which condemned all other religious activities as useless, was particularly dangerous to Jokei and others like him, since it denied the value of practices on which they had staked their spiritual lives. T h e petition lists nine "errors" committed by Honen. 8 The first one, the error of establishing a new sect, is couched in conservative terms, and Honen is accused of hubris for daring to liken himself to Saicho and Kukai, founders of the Japanese Tendai and Shingon schools. Next Jokei complains about a new Pure Land mandala, criticizing its pictorial suggestion that only Pure Land adherents would bathe in Amida's light: " . . . it is unreasonable to claim that if a person, in his single-minded practice of other good actions, were never to call upon Amida, he would thereby be excluded from the rays which truly embrace all" (Morrell 1983: 21). Jokei also criticizes Honen for slighting the historical Buddha and vilifying his followers, for rejecting good deeds and religious practices other than the nenbutsu, for neglecting the kami, and for causing disorder in the nation. In other words, the crux of Jokei's argument is directed against Honen's intolerance of other practices, an attitude seen as having disastrous consequences for society as a whole. When considered in the light of the efforts of Jokei and others to reform their own schools, Honen's viewpoint must have seemed particularly galling. Not only did it condemn their work as useless, it also challenged the concept of hoben that justified religious eclecticism and governed the transmission of Buddhist teachings to lay believers. According to the Kofukuji petition, the recital of the nenbutsu without meditating or concentrating on the Buddha —the practice recommended by Honen—might be "good enough for certain individuals in a worldly state of m i n d " (Morrell 1983:30), but other practices were more suitable for those of higher spiritual attainments. T h e converse—that simple methods

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of achieving salvation were available to those in need of them— was emphasized time and time again in the kanjin requests. In them, Miroku, like Amida, is presented as a compassionate savior whose grace is available to all, since he had vowed, " I will not even discard those who do not think of me. How much less so those who yearn for m e ! " (Sosho 1960:236). Even so, there was an important difference between Honen's Pure Land teachings and the salvationism propounded by the Nara monks. In the Pure Land scheme, salvation depended only on a believer's faith and Amida Buddha's grace. The Nara monks, however, argued that salvation required positive action by the believer. Yet this action did not have to be arduous or costly. The argument that small donations would produce great rewards was the nucleus of the Kasagidera requests. When Jokei wrote: " T h e dedication of a small offering shall without fail enable you to see the Buddha, hear his teachings, aim at enlightenment, and fulfill that a i m " (Sosho 1960:238), he was claiming that a small gift would initiate a sequence of inevitable events—each involving the giver's will and effort—that would eventually result in buddhahood. A good deed such as the construction of a pagoda might be performed collectively, and merit sufficient for salvation would accrue to each participant. Thus the construction of monastery buildings and the support of Buddhist services was not the province of the wealthy alone. Requests for small contributions, moreover, can be seen not only as an attempt to attract the impecunious but also as an effort to cut to size the moral requirements for salvation. There are many examples in Kasagidera's kanjin requests: "If you give alms to living beings even once, you still form the good karma to meet with Miroku" (Sosho 1960:235). "Even those who sink into the miserable worlds of hell, hungry ghosts, or beasts can rely on the encounter with Miroku at his advent" (Sosho 1960:241), just as even the wicked, in Honen's teachings, might rely on Amida. A similar theme was repeated by Jokei in his treatise Shin'yosho, written in 1212 near the end of his life. H e argued that, in the age of mappo, those who "keep the precepts or break the precepts, hold the precepts or lack the precepts" would attain salvation at the time of Miroku's advent (Takakusu and Watanabe 1924-1932, 71:58 [no. 2311]). In their efforts to put salvation within anyone's reach, the

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Kasagidera monks occupied the mainstream of Kamakura Buddhism. Certainly they were motivated in part by economic needs. We might view kanjin cynically as an attempt to prosper by coopting the methods that had attracted followers to Honen. But, in fact, the Kasagidera efforts and the Nara school revival sprang from the same combination of reaction to social and political upheaval and maturing comprehension of Buddhist teachings that had produced Honen's movement. Like Honen, monks of the kenmitsu schools had assessed their own times and declared them the age of mappo; like Honen, these monks sought a proper spiritual response to the "decadence" of the age; and like Honen, they chose to respond in a way that offered comfort to large numbers of people. If economic pressure made it necessary for temples to seek new donors, the monks' own spiritual goals made it necessary for them to seek new converts. The efforts of monks such as Jokei and others who conducted kanjin campaigns had far more influence on subsequent developments in Buddhism than is generally recognized. Despite Honen's insistence that the nenbutsu alone was sufficient for salvation, lay believers did not discard other practices. They pooled their resources to have images made, temples repaired, and services recited for the dead, and they embarked on pilgrimages to temples and shrines. It was as if people took to heart the declaration of religious eclecticism made by Jokei in Shin'yosho: " I n the latter days, there are Amida and Miroku for buddhas, the Lotus and H a n n y a for sutras, the nenbutsu and reading the sutras for religious activities, and for places to be reborn there are the Gokuraku paradise [of Amida] and the Tosotsu heaven" (Kamata and Tanaka 1971: 468; Takakusu and Watanabe 1924-1932, 71:62 [no. 2311]). The eclecticism of the older Buddhist schools was far more than just a tolerant outlook; it was the very pillar that supported outreach to lay believers, whether through kanjin or other means. Clerics such as Jokei tried to revive monastic Buddhism by adhering strictly to the precepts, in hopes of reproducing the religious purity that they attributed to Shakyamuni's Buddhism. At the same time they stressed paths to salvation that were simple to comprehend and easy to follow, thus—like Honen—making Buddhism accessible to lay believers. These two aspects of the Nara revival seem contradictory, but they were organically connected. Early in this chapter I suggested that the Nara revival might

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fit Victor Turner's definition of a revivalist movement that aimed to recreate the communitas of the religion in its earliest days. Seen from two different perspectives—that of the monk and that of the lay believer—the Nara revival seems to have had this aim. On the one hand, monks such as Jokei formed special communities bound by their observance of the precepts. O n the other hand, the actions of Jokei and others like him manifested the belief that everyone had the buddha-nature and that, therefore, the Buddhist message must be extended to everyone. The entire reconstruction effort at Kasagidera—the crafting of the temple's story, the search for donors from various social levels, and the emphasis on collective action—can be seen as efforts to fulfill this goal. The creation of communities of willing donors also had implications for society at large: these communities could be used by their members as bases for political action or manipulated by holders or seekers of power. Moreover, the very idea of public, voluntary support for temples also produced political capital for the temples themselves and for their prominent lay patrons. When important political figures such as the retired emperor or the shogun donated to kanjin campaigns and convinced others to do likewise, they were enhancing their own prestige and authority and thus their political control. The donations to Kasagidera from dignitaries such as Go Shirakawa should probably be seen in this light. The retired emperor was always eager to advance his own political causes through patronizing temples. His most significant opportunity came when a fire in 1180 destroyed J a p a n ' s most splendid monastery, the imperial temple Todaiji. The next chapter will tell how Go Shirakawa and later, the shogun, manipulated Todaiji's misfortune to their own advantage, and how their actions benefited Todaiji and broadened the use of kanjin methods.

H A L F A P E N N Y OR A S C R A P OF W O O D : C H O G E N A N D THE C A M P A I G N FOR TODAIJI

In the last month of the fourth year of Jisho (1180), the great Nara temple Todaiji was set aflame by the armies of the Taira. 1 The conflagration, which destroyed not only Todaiji but its neighbor temple Kofukuji and other monuments of Nara Buddhism, was a prelude to the Genpei war between the Taira and their rivals the Minamoto. Major buildings of Todaiji were destroyed or severely damaged, including the Daibutsuden and the eighth-century image of Roshana Buddha within. The initial stages of the project to reconstruct Todaiji, begun the next year, were primarily the work of two individuals, Retired Emperor Go Shirakawa and Chogen, a monk who had spent his early religious life as a wandering hijiri. 2 With Go Shirakawa's encouragement, Chogen sought financing for the project through a nationwide kanjin campaign. Complex and costly, the reconstruction of Todaiji took many years to accomplish, but the first step, the recasting of the image's head, was finished in 1185, shortly before the victory of the Minamoto. T h e earliest stage of the project, in short, was completed while the country was still in the throes of civil conflict and in dire economic straits. Moreover, although Kofukuji had been destroyed at the same time, it never became the object of a similar nationwide restoration effort. Todaiji had special claims to national attention: originally constructed by Emperor Shomu as both a symbol of imperial power and a mechanism for the exercise of that power, it could not be left in ruins. The restoration, moreover, was especially important for a monarchy buffeted by war and by

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challenges to its prerogatives by an upstart warrior class, and for a civilian aristocracy that depended on the institution of the monarchy for its political power. The rebuilding of Todaiji had significant implications both for the exercise of political power and for the development of Buddhism's appeal for all social classes. Secular power formation and religious revival converged to produce a community of believers that cooperated to rebuild the temple with any means at their disposal. The use of a kanjin campaign to raise revenue for Todaiji's restoration was intended by Go Shirakawa to bolster the power and authority of the throne. The campaign was reminiscent of Gyoki's efforts when the temple was founded in the mid-eighth century, when the monarchy was at the height of its political power. Moreover, in requesting the voluntary help of all the people to rebuild a monument to imperial glory, the throne involved the public in an integrated project that transcended the divisions of early medieval society. In effect, the rebuilding of Todaiji—and the way in which revenue was sought for the project—was meant to strengthen the throne's claim to jurisdiction over all J a p a n , in contrast to the more limited claims of the bushi (warrior) houses involved in the Genpei war. Ironically, the project also served the interests of Minamoto Yoritomo (1147-1199), chief of the victorious bushi faction who eventually became the shogun. Through supporting the Todaiji reconstruction, Yoritomo also sought legitimation for his power, but the fact that his power was based on military force dictated differences in the way that legitimation was pursued. The practical problems of reconstruction required his help, even though his participation in the project ultimately advanced his own cause at the expense of Go Shirakawa's; thus the two cooperated, each for reasons of his own. T h e pivotal role in harnessing political ambition to religious revival was played by Chogen, a man who turned his status as a marginal hijiri into a position of power and influence, and transformed a basically elite undertaking—the reconstruction of a state temple—into an opportunity to spread a popular faith. The alliance between Chogen and Go Shirakawa—one at the apex of the social structure, the other at its margins—created at least the perception that the Todaiji campaign was supported by the entire nation, the community as a whole. Chogen employed this percep-

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tion to create a solid community of believers that supported not only the Todaiji effort but his other projects as well, using kanjin campaigns and the temples built through them to spread the belief in Amida and the Pure Land among people of various social classes. The Todaiji campaign's nationwide scope and its links to throne and shogun made it unusual among kanjin campaigns, but the aims of its exalted sponsors were similar to the aims of lesser political authorities who appropriated kanjin means throughout the Kamakura period, and the methods used by Chogen were adopted by other temples conducting kanjin efforts on a smaller scale. Thus the Todaiji campaign can help to shed light on the ways in which temples, through kanjin, used and were used by political authorities to enhance the power of both.

Todaiji and the Throne By the twelfth century, neither Todaiji nor the throne entirely fulfilled Shomu's conception of them as powerful centers of, respectively, the state religious system and the state itself. In 822, when the court permitted monks to be ordained at the Tendai center at Mt. Hiei, Todaiji's earlier monopoly over entry into the clergy was broken. Perhaps even more important was the dissolution of the entire system of state control over Buddhism in the Heian period: scores of unofficial temples were founded, unauthorized monks moved freely among the people, and the framework of official Buddhism was severely weakened. Todaiji remained an important temple and became a powerful landholder and political force, but it was no longer the center of an integrated structure. As for the throne, it was deprived of much of its income by tax exemptions granted to the shoen, and the regnant emperors were weakened and manipulated first by their maternal (Fujiwara) relatives and then by abdicated emperors who exercised power behind the scenes. Nonetheless, the throne retained its institutional primacy as the ultimate source of official appointments and the confirmation of land rights. In 1180, however, that primacy must have seemed in danger from the expanding power of the bushi clans. The head of the Taira, Kiyomori, had been ensconced in Kyoto since 1159. His attempt to dominate the throne, although patterned after Fuji-

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wara methods, was much more heavy-handed than theirs had ever been: Kiyomori went so far as to place Retired Emperor Go Shirakawa under house arrest at one point and even moved the capital briefly to his own power base at Fukuhara along the Inland Sea. In eastern J a p a n , Minamoto Yoritomo was expanding his hegemony over the area, perhaps even planning to establish an independent rebel state (Hurst 1982:5-6). In short, the throne was at a crisis point in 1180, even before the destruction of Todaiji. When Go Shirakawa set out to restore the temple, he was not only attempting to rebuild an important Buddhist institution, he was also restoring a powerful symbol of imperial rule.

Go Shirakawa and the Todaiji Kanjin

Campaign

Go Shirakawa has not fared well in history, nor was he honored in his own time. 3 Minamoto Yoritomo called him "Japan's greatest tengu (goblin)," and an oracle circulated during his lifetime evaluated him thus: " T h e retired emperor's character is not sincere; he follows fashion and is inconstant; his heart is not at peace; while such a situation prevails, uprisings will not cease in the realm" (Takeuchi 1978:272). The creators of Heike monogatari depicted him as sly and wily, playing one bushi and noble against another, with constant thought of his own advantage. Even his own man Fujiwara Michinori (Shinzei), who conducted the affairs of the Inno-cho (Retired Emperor's Office) until his own death in the Heiji war of 1159, characterized Go Shirakawa as an unenlightened ruler "without parallel in the history of China and J a p a n " (Sansom 1958:267). His alleged inconstancy and manipulativeness, however, can also be seen as pragmatism in defense of the throne's prerogatives. Although it was thought proper for monarchs to patronize literature and religion, Go Shirakawa was also criticized for excessive devotion to both (Takeuchi 1978:267, 273). Because he had been absorbed since his childhood in imayo, a form of popular poetry, his father, Retired Emperor Toba, considered him unworthy to take the throne, and he became emperor only because there was no other suitable candidate at the time of Emperor Konoe's sudden death in 1155. He retained his interest in imayo throughout his lifetime, collecting the poems—many on Buddhist themes —in the anthology Ryojin hisho and inviting even prostitutes and

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street minstrels to his palace if they were skilled imayô reciters (Kwon 1986:275). Conservative courtiers must have looked askance at Go Shirakawa's unseemly interest in the lower orders of society; yet it may have helped give him the broad perspective necessary to envision a public campaign to rebuild Todaiji that appealed not only to the aristocracy, but to ordinary folk as well. Go Shirakawa's piety was well known, attracting the attention of such observors as Jien, the Tendai cleric who compiled the history Gukanshd in the thirteenth century (Jien 1969:375, Brown and Ishida 1979:105). Critics claimed, however, that his devotion had gone too far, encouraging the depredations of monastic armies and exhausting government resources in the patronage of both Buddhist temples and Shintô shrines (Takeuchi 1978:273274). Go Shirakawa made thirty-two pilgrimages to K u m a n o shrine and built several shrines and temples, donating landholdings to support them. His best-known construction project prior to the Tôdaiji rebuilding was Sanjûsangendô (Rengeôin), built in the capital in 1164 and famous for its thousand images of the Thousand-armed Kannon. For this project Go Shirakawa turned to Taira Kiyomori, who defrayed the costs through assessments on Bizen province, where the Taira had extensive holdings (Jien 1969:405, Brown and Ishida 1979:118). After the Taira victory in the Heiji uprising of 1159, Kiyomori and Go Shirakawa formed an uneasy alliance that lasted for twenty years. At first Kiyomori deferred to the retired emperor (Mass 1974a: 127-133)—the financing of Sanjûsangendô may be one example—but the bushi leader cleverly established an independent route to power, marrying his daughter to the regnant emperor and becoming, in 1178, the grandfather of the future emperor Antoku. By that time relations between Kiyomori and Go Shirakawa had become quite uncomfortable: neither had forgiven the other for his role in the Shishigatani affair of 1177, in which associates of the retired emperor had plotted against Kiyomori and had been discovered and harshly punished. Kiyomori had even reprimanded Go Shirakawa himself. In 1179, clearly recognizing Kiyomori's maternal connections to the throne as a threat, Go Shirakawa seized Taira land rights and rejected Kiyomori's candidate for high office; Kiyomori responded with a coup d'état in which the retired emperor was placed under house arrest. This act became the pretext for rebellions on the part of the Mina-

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moto, rivals to the Taira. Faced with this agitation, Kiyomori restored Go Shirakawa to his position as the head of the In-no-cho in 1180, but Go Shirakawa remained under the Taira leader's thumb until the latter's death in early 1181. It is against this background that Go Shirakawa's concern with rebuilding Todaiji must be evaluated. A restored Todaiji could serve as a monument to the renewed glory of the throne as well as to the perfidy of the Taira (a factor that must also have attracted Minamoto Yoritomo's cooperation somewhat later in the rebuilding process). But where could Go Shirakawa obtain funding for such a massive project? State support for Todaiji, like other important Buddhist institutions, had been provided initially by land allotments and tax revenues from designated sustenance households. When revenue from these sources became unreliable, Todaiji increased its efforts to develop shoen, which it could control more directly (Piggott 1982:52-53). For purposes of repair, however, official temples such as Todaiji could still lay claim to state funds (Yasuda 1983:66). Thus Todaiji had two possible sources to fund its reconstruction project: it could milk its own shoen, and it could receive public assistance through taxes. But the scramble for funding that took place early in 1181 suggests that sufficient revenue could be obtained from neither source. Although the destruction of Todaiji caused much distress in the imperial court, little could be done to repair the damage as long as the government and Go Shirakawa himself were under Kiyomori's control. Moreover, the Taira had forced the confiscation of Todaiji estates (Kujo 1908, I, 2:463 [1181/1/8]), thus cutting the temple off from its income. It was not until Kiyomori died in the intercalary second month of 1181 that reconstruction activities could be initiated. Even then Go Shirakawa proceeded cautiously, blaming not the Taira but "bad elements" at Todaiji and Kofukuji for the burning and only tentatively suggesting that the temples' estates be restored (Kujo 1908,1, 2:489 [1181/intercalary 2/20]). Though the holdings were returned shortly,4 Todaiji's financial problems were not solved, as Kujo Kanezane, then minister of the right, affirmed in his diary Gyokuyo. The only truly contemporary account of the early stages of Todaiji's reconstruction is found in this diary, compiled between 1164 and 1200. Although for the most part this information can be

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accepted as accurate, Kanezane seems to have taken little interest in the detailed planning of the project. Thus the account must be supplemented by other sources that date from somewhat later times, such as Chogen's Namuamidabutsu sazenshu (1934:42-51), written in 1204, and Hyakurensho (Kuroita 1929), a chronicle written in the late Kamakura period. The most detailed and polished account, however, appears in Todaiji zoku yoroku (1907:195-206), compiled in the late thirteenth century. In this version, the kanjin campaign is described as a purposeful and well-planned effort initiated by determined and pious individuals. In both its tone and some of its factual information, however, this account disagrees at times with Kanezane's. (See Table 1 for a chronology of the first steps of the Todaiji reconstruction.) According to both Zoku yoroku and Gyokuyo, serious plans for reconstructing Todaiji got under way in the third month of 1181. It was then that Fujiwara Yukitaka, an official of Go Shirakawa's In-no-cho and the Kurododokoro (Imperial Secretariat), arranged with bronzecasting masters to remake the Daibutsu image. A few days later, when he visited Kanezane on Go Shirakawa's behalf, Table 1

First Steps in the Reconstruction of Todaiji

1180/12/28 1181/intercalary 2/5 1181/intercalary 2/20 1181/3/17 1181/3/21 1181/4/9 1181/6/26 1181/6 1181/7/14-16 1181/8 1181/10/6 1181/10/9

Nara temples burned (GY, TZY) Kiyomori dies (GY) Yukitaka and Kanezane discuss the possibility of restoring temple shoen (GY) Yukitaka contacts casting masters (TZY) Yukitaka suggests an imperial request for donations (GY) Chogen volunteers his services (TZY) Yukitaka is appointed construction superintendent (GY) Imperial edict orders a kanjin campaign (TZY) Yukitaka and Kanezane discuss reconstruction financing (GY) Chogen issues his kanjin appeal (TZY) Casting of the Daibutsu is set to begin (GY) Chogen collects donations in Kyoto (GY)

GY: Kujo Kanezane, Gyokuyo. TZY: Kokusho Kankokai, Todaiji zoku yoroku.

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Yukitaka suggested that an imperial order be issued to chishiki (Buddhist faithful) to implement the casting of the image. The use of the word chishiki suggests that there was to be a request for donations, though there is no indication that a nationwide kanjin campaign was considered at this time. At the end of the sixth month, government officials met to decide on details of the construction project. Yukitaka was appointed construction superintendent, and several other officials of the retired emperor's staff were chosen to assist him (Asai and Asai 1986:16). Following the recommendations of the On'yoryo (Bureau of Divinations), construction work was set to begin in the eighth month. According to an order passed on from Yukitaka to officials of Todaiji and of Yamato province, Todaiji's sustenance households and shoen would finance the project. Even so, funding was still a significant problem, and there was considerable danger that the project would not get under way as planned. Gyokuyo reports a conversation that took place on 7/13 between Kanezane and Yukitaka, who bore a message from Go Shirakawa (Kujo 1908, I, 2:514-515). The retired emperor complained that the nation had been plagued by a series of calamities —drought, famine, and insurrection—as well as by mysterious events, including a comet and the appearance of two flowers on one stem of a lotus plant, an omen of bad fortune. How, Go Shirakawa asked, can we avoid such misfortunes? Go Shirakawa's complaint was vague, but the destruction of the Nara temples—and the failure of the court to set about immediately to rebuild them— must have been seen as at least one cause of the disasters and bad omens that had befallen the nation. Kanezane's answer implied that this was the case. While sympathizing with the retired emperor's concerns, Kanezane, in his own account the benevolent Confucian minister, refused to consider raising taxes: "Whether we are discussing the restoration of the two temples [Todaiji and Kofukuji] or provisions for warriors of our defending army, if we lay the expenses on the people, it would really be quite a burden for them. Even in good years, these farmers lead hard lives; how much more so when they are dying of starvation!" Kanezane and messengers from Go Shirakawa debated the issue for the next two days without reaching any firm decision. That autumn, apparently, a decision was made to finance Todaiji's reconstruction in part through a kanjin campaign.

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Though such campaigns had become quite common by the late twelfth century, they were not the standard means to meet expenses at the temple; as a model for fundraising, Gyoki's effort seemed all but forgotten. Private undertakings rooted in popular religious beliefs, campaigns were more suitable for small and medium-sized temples that obtained their main support from the populace at large than for a great institution such as Todaiji, established by imperial order as a religious underpinning for the state. In the difficult times of 1181, however, it must have seemed necessary to seek revenue from every possible source. Even though Todaiji's shoen had once more become available, the temple's economic base had been weakening for some time, and the problem was exacerbated by continuing disputes with Kofukuji over holdings in Yamato province (Asai and Asai 1986:16). In addition, it appears that the traditional mechanism for accomplishing repair work had long since failed the temple: repairs had originally been the responsibility of the betto, but from late Heian times that office had been filled by Shingon monks who did not live at the temple and sometimes neglected their duties (Nagam u r a 1981:64). Thus the resident monks at the temple had to look elsewhere, and this necessity prepared the way for the kanjin campaign as an alternate revenue source.

Looking Back to Shomu Such explanations are certainly valid, but I think yet another factor should be considered: the desire of the court, especially Go Shirakawa, to use Todaiji's reconstruction to enhance the power and prestige of the throne. If a nationwide kanjin campaign were used to collect revenue for the project, it would be a concrete testament to the power of the throne to mobilize people and resources from anywhere in J a p a n and thus to lay claim as no bushi leader could to jurisdiction over the entire nation. Calling for a nationwide campaign may have been economically necessary; politically it was a bold step. The Taira still held power in the capital, and Go Shirakawa and Kanezane had to be careful not to offend them. This may be one reason that, in conversations between Kanezane and Go Shirakawa's messengers in the seventh month of 1181, temple reconstruction was joined to two other questions: how to deal with "bad monks"—presumably

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the ones who had invited the retribution of the Taira—and how to finance the Taira war effort. It seems as if Go Shirakawa and Kanezane were ready to offer the Taira a quid pro quo: do not interfere with our efforts to rebuild Todaiji and Kofukuji, and in exchange we will keep monastic armies under control and provide for your soldiers. To investigate the kanjin campaign itself and Chogen's role in implementing it, we must turn to Todaiji zoku yoroku (1907:195206). According to this source, Chogen approached Yukitaka in the fourth month of 1181, explaining that a dream oracle had sent him to visit Todaiji, where he had lamented the destruction of the Daibutsu. Yukitaka, recognizing help when he saw it, suggested that an imperial order authorizing a kanjin campaign might be obtained. Such an order was promulgated in the sixth month, and two months later, we are told, Chogen built six one-wheeled carts, and he and his followers canvassed "the seven circuits and all the provinces," requesting donations through a written appeal. The imperial order and Chogen's kanjin appeal are reproduced along with a document written in 1185 by Chogen that corroborates the earlier account. 5 Reminiscing many years later, Chogen wrote in Namuamidabutsu sazenshu: "Some twenty-three years have passed between the time when, at age sixty-one, I received the imperial order to rebuild Todaiji, and now, when I have reached the age of eightythree. After six years the construction of the Daibutsu was accomplished, and the retired emperor Go Shirakawa paid an imperial visit on the day of the eye-opening [the dedication of the image]" (1934:49). The reference to the imperial order is, to my knowledge, the earliest independent confirmation of the Zoku yoroku account. The account is also supported by a passage in the lateKamakura history Hyakurensho: " O n the twenty-sixth day [of the sixth month of 1181], the decision to rebuild Todaiji was made, and a petition for assistance was circulated among the Buddhist faithful'' (Kuroita 1929:106). The edict ordering the campaign was clearly the work of Go Shirakawa, though it was formally promulgated by the reigning emperor Antoku, a small boy who of course had nothing to do with it. After the death of Kiyomori, however, Go Shirakawa had reassumed partial control of the state apparatus; thus it was doubtless he who dictated the edict, a contention that may be sup-

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ported b y its l a u d a t o r y treatment of h i m . T h r o u g h o u t the docum e n t , parallels are d r a w n b e t w e e n S h o m u ' s original construction of the temple a n d the throne's current restoration plans. T h e edict sometimes quotes directly f r o m S h o m u ' s p r o c l a m a t i o n (in the extracts below, direct or near-direct quotations are printed in italics). T h e d o c u m e n t opens w i t h a pious expression o f r e v e r e n c e for the imperial line and c o n c e r n for its preservation (Todaiji zoku yoroku 1 9 0 7 : 1 9 9 ) : Tender of age as we are, we gratefully laud [past] imperial achievements, rely upon the protection of our ancestors, and earnestly pay heed to the safety of the imperial line. In regard to this, in Yamato province Sofuriokami district, there was constructed a great temple with a joroku6 gilt bronze image that Emperor Shomu had cast in the Tenpyo era. The roof of the temple soared to the heavens, and the sacred brilliance of the image surpassed that of the full moon; truly there is nothing to compare with it in Japan or China. W h e n the fires o f the T a i r a laid waste to the t e m p l e , Zenjo Sen'in [Go Shirakawa] heard of the matter and, deeply moved, had the temple's foundation stones preserved in their original arrangement, trees to reconstruct the building cut in the mountains, a casting mold made by skilled artisans, and copper obtained from the provinces. He desired to rebuild the temple with these materials, and the intent of his imperial vow truly suffices as a grateful response [to Shomu's establishment of the temple]. It is We who possess the wealth of the land; it is We who possess all power in the land. With this wealth and power at Our command, we shall certainly assist others to achieve meditative power and wisdom 7 and shall, moreover, act in accord with the desire expressed long ago by the sainted founder of the temple. T u r n i n g to the m a t t e r of f i n a n c i n g the r e b u i l d i n g project, the edict states: We ought to appeal to both clergy and lay believers for donations. Since everyone from royalty and ministers of state down to palanquin bearers and low class servants pays homage daily to the image of Roshana, devotion to the Buddha exists within each heart, and therefore we can construct the image through our own efforts.8 Long ago Emperor Shomu

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fervently desired the salvation of all creatures. In his chambers he prayed to the Shinto kami, and publicly he encouraged the world to follow the Buddhist law, graciously issuing imperial orders and accomplishing many good deeds. We must follow such ancient practices and restore this venerable monument! Those who give alms for this purpose, even though it be only a grain of rice, half a penny, a small tool, or a log one foot in length, shall prosper forever and everywhere through the power of their good deeds. The edict goes on to emphasize further the value of small donations to the project, likening them to small particles that form a great mountain or tiny brooks that make up the ocean. After promising good karma and salvation to donors and peace and prosperity in the realm, the edict, like that of Shomu, warns its executors: " T h e officials of the Kinai, the seven circuits, and all the provinces must not intrude on the people for the sake of this project" (Todaiji zoku yoroku 1907:199). In summary, the edict recalls Shomu's role in the founding of Todaiji and quotes directly from his proclamation to emphasize the parallel between him and Go Shirakawa. Furthermore, the edict implies a connection between the welfare of the imperial line and the reconstruction of Todaiji; it also points out the responsibility that everyone bears for the project and specifies a broad-based voluntary kanjin campaign to finance it. The Zoku yoroku narrative that contains the edict also establishes a second parallel, between Chogen and Gyoki. According to the account, when Chogen first approached Yukitaka to volunteer his services, Yukitaka replied, " I n the Tenpyo era, Gyoki Bosatsu was given the imperial order [to rebuild Todaiji] and thus proceeded to conduct a kanjin campaign." In his kanjin appeal, moreover, Chogen declares that when Todaiji was founded, "Gyoki Bosatsu brought to fruition the devotion of Buddhist believers" (Todaiji zoku yoroku 1907:198-200)—much, it is implied, as Chogen himself intends to do. Though most Japanese scholars tend to accept the Zoku yoroku account, there are reasons to doubt its complete accuracy. Chogen's appeal carries a bogus date, the eighth month of the first year of Yowa, but the Yowa era did not begin until the tenth month. (The imperial order, however, is dated correctly.) Although the incorrect date may have been a later copyist's error, it

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may also mean that the appeal itself was composed somewhat later, perhaps in order to help form a logical story. In addition, the Zoku yoroku account shows none of the floundering that becomes apparent when we read Kanezane's diary. In Zoku yoroku, the kanjin campaign began officially in the eighth month, but the imperial order quoted above was dated in the sixth month, indicating that this method of raising revenue had been chosen. But in Gyokuyo Go Shirakawa was still wringing his hands in the middle of the seventh month. Kanezane mentioned nothing about Chogen and the kanjin campaign until the tenth month, when he noted: " T h e Todaiji alms-collecting shonin (hijiri) went around to all houses in the capital asking for donations—beginning with the retired emperor and not asking whether a household be noble or base. I've heard that the Nyoin [Sutoku's empress and Kanezane's sister, Kokamon'in] contributed ten catties of bronze and others gave a thousand kanmon of cash or six ryo of gold" (Kujo 1908, I, 2:532 [1181/10/9]). It may have been his sister's substantial gift that interested Kanezane in the Todaiji campaign rather than any importance that he attributed to the kanjin effort itself. Gyokuyo's record of the stumbling efforts of Go Shirakawa and Kanezane in the middle of 1181 seems somewhat more true to life than the decisive steps described in Zoku yoroku; yet the later account should not be dismissed out of hand. Both Sazenshu and Gyokuyo indicate that an imperial order authorizing a kanjin campaign was in fact promulgated sometime in midyear. The Zoku yoroku version probably reflects how the entire effort was meant to be seen, perhaps by Todaiji, perhaps by Chogen, perhaps by Go Shirakawa, but most likely by all three. It was Go Shirakawa, in fact, who had the biggest stake in creating a story of a unified, purposeful effort—a story in which Chogen played the part of Gyoki and he himself took the role of Emperor Shomu. The association of Gyoki with the collection of donations for Todaiji, though based on an accepted historical account, seems to have become part of the popular Gyoki legend only after Chogen's campaign. Heian period sources such as Hokke genki and Konjaku monogatarishu portray Gyoki as a miracle worker and popular evangelist who helped people in practical ways, for example by building roads and bridges, and whose virtues eventually attracted imperial patronage (Inoue and Osone 1974:51-54; Dykstra 1983: 27-29 [book 1, no. 2]; Nagazumi and Ikegami 1966-1968, 1:13-

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17 [book 11, no. 2], 27-29 [book 11, no. 7], 3:74-77 [book 17, nos. 36, 37]). But Shasekishu, written in the early fourteenth century, identifies him as the "Subscription Saint who took up collections for the construction of Todaiji" (Morrell 1985:181; M u j u 1966:256-259 [5B:11]). It is my conjecture that sometime in the process of Chogen's campaign, the Gyoki legend was embellished with a little-known but probably factual item from the Shoku nihongi in an attempt to use popular veneration of Gyoki to validate a widespread kanjin effort. It is unclear to what extent Chogen was successful in obtaining donations from ordinary people. His appeal echoes the request for small donations in the imperial edicts of 1181 and 743. Yet there is little information on what ordinary people actually gave; the initial donations noted in Gyokuyo, one thousand kanmon of cash or six ryo of gold, are a far cry from a length of cloth. Perhaps the ocean indeed could be formed from the water of tiny brooks, but the contributions of major rivers would fill it up much more efficiently. In addition, if the peasants were as close to starvation as Kanezane claimed, then they would not have had anything to give. It is likely that Todaiji received small donations from the general populace but that the most important donors from a practical point of view were people such as Yoritomo, who contributed a thousand bolts of silk, a thousand ryo of gold dust, and ten thousand koku of rice (Hayakawa 1923, 1:112 [1185/3/7]). If the true purpose of the kanjin campaign, however, was to unite people around the throne to rebuild a monument to imperial glory, then it was more important for the campaign to look like a popular effort than to be one.

The Selection of Chogen If Go Shirakawa was the catalyst that launched the reconstruction of Todaiji, then Chogen was the force that drove the project to its successful conclusion. His appointment put him in charge not only of the collection of donations, but also of the entire construction process at the temple, a position of great power and influence. The appointment turned out to be a fortunate one for Todaiji, since Chogen was a perspicacious m a n skilled not only in kanjin methods, but also in shepherding artists, managing revenue, and setting the project's priorities.

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The selection of Chogen requires some explanation. H e was an aging monk who had attained no distinguished ecclesiastical rank, had written no commentaries on the scriptures or sophisticated doctrinal treatises, and had no previous connection to Todaiji. However, he had already supervised the construction of two temple buildings and had conducted smaller-scale kanjin campaigns, winning the patronage of provincial notables and the devotion of ordinary people. 9 In other words, his technological skill and his ability to attract a wide spectrum of potential donors overcame his relatively low social position and recommended him to court officials such as Yukitaka. Little is known about Chogen's life prior to his Todaiji appointment. His autobiography, Namuamidabutsu sazenshu, primarily concerns his "good deeds" (sazen) of constructing temples, images, and baths, but contains a few details about his early life (Chogen 1934:42-51). Another source is the commentary that he wrote in 1185, on the occasion of the Daibutsu's dedication (Todaijizokuyoroku 1907:208-209). Several scholars have used that information, inscriptions, hagiography, and anecdotes to patch together a sketchy picture of his life. 10 He is said to have been born in the capital to a branch of the Ki family with connections to both the Kurododokoro and Retired Emperor Toba's guards. Chogen took Buddhist orders as a boy, perhaps as young as age thirteen, entering the Shingon temple Daigoji on the outskirts of Kyoto. When he was still quite young, he undertook Shugendo practice, traveling to sacred mountains in central Honshu, Shikoku, Kyushu, and the Tohoku region, and reciting and copying the Lotus sutra. H e claimed to have traveled to China three times, and it may have been on these travels that he obtained the technological skill that enabled him to design the Daibutsuden. Like many of his contemporaries, he was devoted to Amida throughout his lifetime. H e took credit for making thirty-seven images of Amida, and he eventually adopted the name of Namuamidabutsu, the invocation (nenbutsu) recited by followers of the Pure Land faith. In addition, he advocated chanting the nenbutsu while bathing, and he had baths established at temples and elsewhere, combining practical good work that promoted cleanliness and good health with a ritual that both propagated the nenbutsu and symbolized spiritual cleansing (Gorai 1975:182185). Biographies of the Pure Land school founder Honen claim

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close connections between him and Chogen; indeed, both had similar faith in the nenbutsu and a similar concern with popular preaching. Chogen is most closely associated, however, with the nenbutsu hijiri at Mt. Koya, where he took up residence sometime before 1176. Scholars have questioned Chogen's lineage, his exact relationship with Honen, and his journeys to China, but the rest of this information is generally accepted and provides a picture of a hijiri like many in late Heian J a p a n : one who combined mountain asceticism, devotion to Amida and the Lotus sutra, and construction work that benefited both temples and the general populace. According to some sources in the Pure Land tradition (e.g., Kurodani Genku shonin den, quoted in Kobayashi 1971:64), the first choice for the Todaiji kanjin position was Honen, who declined but recommended Chogen instead. Though this account may be an invention of Honen's hagiographers, it suggests that one important qualification for the head of the kanjin campaign was a closeness to the people of the type that Honen and Chogen had established. Both men, moreover, had developed ties with court functionaries as well as with ordinary folk. They were not merely vagabond hijiri unworthy of official notice, but potential intermediaries between court and populace. In particular, Chogen seems to have attracted the patronage of Minamoto Moroyuki, minister of the treasury, a zuryo (provincial governor) and client of Retired Emperor Toba (Gomi 1984: 400-403). Moroyuki was the main contributor to a kanjin campaign that Chogen conducted for the construction of a temple building at Daigoji. In 1176 Chogen conducted another campaign for a bronze bell at Koya's Enjuin, dedicated to persons identified as Moroyuki and two of his sons, and to an unidentified nun, probably another family member. One of the sons to whom the bell was dedicated was a monk at Todaiji's Tonan'in (Kobayashi 1971:46), and he may very well have suggested that Chogen undertake the restoration kanjin project. More generally speaking, the mediation of a powerful functionary such as Moroyuki must have stood Chogen in good stead in establishing a relationship with the court. Another useful connection for Chogen was with the Kurododokoro, in which Yukitaka held an important position. The connection may have been established through Chogen's own family

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or through Moroyuki, who had contacts with the bureau. The Kurododokoro had charge of important metal casters' groups, one of which participated in the reconstruction of the Daibutsu and also assisted Chogen later with such projects as the casting of bath cauldrons at Daigoji and an iron pagoda at Amidaji in Suo province (Amino 1975:365). Important as Ch5gen's connections may have been, it was also his muen status—his lack of permanent connections to any single temple, patron, or government office—that made him an appropriate choice to head Go Shirakawa's kanjin campaign. Even after Chogen assumed responsibility for the Todaiji campaign, he remained an outsider whose priorities for reconstruction differed from those of the regular monks (Nagamura 1981:72). Free of entanglements and able to move freely from one social milieu to another, Chogen—like other hijiri—was in an ideal position to attract donors. In addition, his muen status may have been of value in establishing ties with Go Shirakawa, since muen people had a special relationship to the throne. According to Amino Yoshihiko, the category muen included not only hijiri but vagabond craftsmen and peddlers as well as the roads they traveled and the ports and markets where they sold their wares (1978b:44). By the late Heian period, as Amino argues elsewhere, the throne had established its jurisdiction over muen people and places (1975:358-367). For example, it granted licenses to certain craftsmen to travel freely without the payment of tolls assessed to most people. In fact, vagabond craftsmen often sought the status of kugonin (purveyors to the imperial household), because it would free them from any jurisdiction but that of the throne. Amino points out that Chogen's right to travel nationwide to collect donations was of the same order as the rights of kugonin (1974:291). Amino's ideas intersect with those of the anthropologist Yamaguchi Masao, who associates both hijiri and monarch with a type of mythical figure that we may call the Visitor deity (1977:151-179). 11 T h e Visitor, who appears in various guises, brings both bounty and danger to the isolated village community. As the Japanese terms hitogami (human-deity) or marodogami (adventitious deity) indicate, the Visitor was considered to be no ordinary human being, but one who possessed the charisma of a kami. The Visitor—perhaps a deity of a universal religion such as

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Buddhism or a famous saint from past history—might bring a community boatloads of grain, chastise the wicked, or mediate between the human and the divine. Sometimes the Visitor was a human being, perhaps a skilled evangelist whose words struck his audience with awe or a ruler who claimed divine descent. His ability to transcend the structures of individual communities gave him power and freedom that insiders—rule- and role-bound—could not muster. Kanjin hijiri often used this ability to their advantage. Such power and freedom was also possessed in theory by the emperor, with his command over the places and people that lay under no one else's control. In one sense these were "leftover" people and places, outside the structure of agricultural society on which bushi power was based. The affinity between the emperor, who stood above the social structure, and the hijiri, on its margins, should not be pushed too far, but in a sense they both were part of the same extrastructural "system." Hijiri, who traveled freely, both in actual space and from one segment of society to another, were the nodes and channels of a communications network that helped to integrate the whole nation. And that integration, Yamaguchi argues, was precisely the monarch's duty. Yamaguchi maintains, however, that the monarch "could not manifest his force directly, because it could be antisocial if it were manifested without modification" (1977:157). If this argument is applied to the events of 1181, it appears that Go Shirakawa faced quite a dilemma. Bushi power, which relied more on actual control of provincial land and people than on titles granted by the throne, was threatening the throne's institutional primacy. Thus there was a need for a powerful example of the throne's ability to integrate the nation. The reconstruction of Todaiji might fit this need; yet to accomplish it through taxation might be regarded as "antisocial," as Kanezane's objections indicate. The choice of a kanjin campaign, which appeared to be both voluntary and widespread, can be understood in this light. Chogen, who stood outside the fractured social structure that Go Shirakawa was attempting to transcend and perhaps even to unify, thus appears to be a logical selection to head the campaign.

The Daibutsu Opens Its Eyes The reconstruction of Todaiji was an immense task that took a century to complete. Revenues collected in Chogen's kanjin cam-

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paign played only a small part in financing the project. Additional support was provided by Yoritomo, who assessed "donations" from his vassals with little pretense that they were voluntary gifts, and most importantly by the assignment of revenues from Suo, Bizen, Harima, and Aki provinces. Yet it was the voluntary kanjin campaign that set the tone for the reconstruction effort. For one thing, the initial step in recasting the Daibutsu's head, the construction of the mold, was funded largely through donations collected by Chogen (Kujo 1908, I, 2:554 [1182/2/20]). Without the campaign, moreover, it would have been difficult for Go Shirakawa to claim that both throne and people had participated in a national effort to reconstruct a monument to imperial glory. Bronzecasters took more than three years to complete the image, beginning work in the second month of 1183 with the casting of the right hand (Kobayashi 1971:68-75; Amino 1975:364365). T h e casting master was a visitor from China, C h ' e n Hoch'ing, who took on the project at Chogen's invitation. According to Gyokuyo, C h ' e n was visiting northern Kyushu in the summer of 1183 (Kujo 1908,1, 1:567 [1182/7/24]). H e was about to return to China when his boat was destroyed, no doubt in one of Kyushu's frequent typhoons, stranding him in J a p a n . C h ' e n ' s troubles were Todaiji's good fortune, and Chogen recruited not only him but seven other Chinese casting masters to work with the Japanese bronzecasting team. C h ' e n and his seven assistants were joined by fifteen Japanese artisans of the Kusabe group, who had already begun to work with Chogen on another project. The casting of the Daibutsu's head and neck took thirty days and fourteen passes before it was completed. In the eighth month of 1185 a dedication ceremony was held for the image of Roshana. The work had been completed with the help of courtiers, bushi, and the common people, who gathered at the ceremony, as "numerous as the sands of the Ganges." Some of them joined the strands of their rosaries together to make a "rope of goodness" to celebrate the occasion (Kujo 1908, 11:98 [1185/8/ 28-30]). Kobayashi Takeshi attributes this unusual example of mass participation in an official temple ceremony to Chogen's leadership (1971:80-81). Go Shirakawa himself painted in the eyes of the image. O n e of Kanezane's companions on the trip home from Nara criticized this conduct as inappropriate: " T h e retired emperor has become a busshi (artist-monk)! What precedent is there for this?" But

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another replied, " T h e precedent is from the Tenpyo era, when Emperor Shomu took the brush himself and deigned to paint in the eyes [of the original Daibutsu]" (Kujo 1908,11:98 [1185/8/2830]). A side note adds that Shomu was retired at the time. It seems likely that this story, which is not the standard account, was promoted by Go Shirakawa in an attempt to identify himself with Shomu and the twelfth-century throne with the throne in its glory days of the eighth. Religious legitimation of the throne's authority must have seemed as important to Go Shirakawa in 1185 as it did in 1181. Even though he had eventually thrown his support to Yoritomo, Go Shirakawa was in a precarious position after the Minamoto victory over the Taira at Dannoura. Yoritomo's refusal to permit his followers to accept court appointments without his permission clearly established his independent authority over the bushi in the Kanto (eastern Japan). Thus Go Shirakawa had failed to make Yoritomo his client, and a new bushi leader posed a challenge to court and throne. Later that year, the retired emperor turned for support to Yoritomo's brother Yoshitsune, but neither that move nor the reconstruction of Todaiji succeeded in restoring the throne to the position it had held in Shomu's day. Perhaps the respectful treatment of emperor and court by the early rulers of Kamakura rested in part, however, on Kamakura's knowledge that no bushi leader of the age could claim a relationship to the entire nation comparable to that of the throne.

Chogen and Yoritomo Even in the first few years of the construction project, however, Go Shirakawa had to share sponsorship with warrior leaders such as Yoritomo, who had even more time and energy to devote to temple building after his victory over the Taira in 1185. Moreover, the reconstruction of Todaiji fit Yoritomo's political agenda, just as it had fit that of Go Shirakawa. Yoritomo's assistance can be seen as an attempt to gain political capital by helping to restore what the Taira had destroyed. The cooperation of court and warrior leaders served the purposes of both: the court benefited when warriors paid public homage to the system of aristocratic rulership in which Todaiji played a part, and warriors benefited because they could claim to be the defenders of legitimate authority. As for

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Chogen, he must have been grateful for Yoritomo's help. Chief of the warriors that had won the Genpei war and thus the nation's leading military power, Yoritomo was an invaluable aid in any case, but certainly crucial to the project's success after the deaths of Yukitaka in 1187 and Go Shirakawa in 1192. In 1184, with the Daibutsu well on its way to completion, Chogen turned to his next project, a building (the Daibutsuden) to house the great image. If the Daibutsu had been a huge project, this building was an immense one, requiring the collection of materials such as timber, stone, and tile; the mobilization of persons skilled in architecture, engineering and shipping; and the management of land and other resources. Yoritomo was Chogen's main lay support in constructing the edifice (Horiike 1976:9). Chogen once again proved himself equal to a difficult task. Through ties with political authorities, artists, and fellow monks, the Tódaiji kanjin hijiri constructed both a personal network of supporters and a physical network of branch temples and shóen to sustain his endeavors. In addition to having the Daibutsuden and other temple buildings reconstructed, Chogen helped to create an official position at Tódaiji that was responsible for construction projects and other economic matters for many years to come. The construction of the Daibutsuden took eleven years to accomplish, from 1184 when Chogen first began to search for timber for the project to 1195 when the grand dedication ceremony was held. 12 Chogen's first task was to find suitable timber, and this was not easy. First he turned to the Yoshino mountains and then to the mountain behind Ise shrine, appealing to the shrine's kami Amaterasu by dedicating a sütra to her. Chogen's real audience was no doubt the court, which venerated Amaterasu as the ancestor of the imperial family. For unspecified reasons, Chogen's initial efforts were unsuccessful. Suitable materials were finally obtained from Suó province in southwest Honshü, through the help of both Go Shirakawa and Yoritomo. In 1186 Suó was granted to Tódaiji as a proprietary province: all revenues from Suó's public lands were directed toward Tódaiji's reconstruction. Two factors made Suó a suitable choice: first, it had abundant forests, and second, it was under the direct control of Go Shirakawa, the de facto " c h a i r m a n " of the rebuilding project. Chogen was put in charge of the province, and in 1186 he led a team of artisans, including the Daibutsu casting master

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C h ' e n Ho-ch'ing, to survey the forests. According to an inscription on an iron stupa at Suô Amidaji, a temple Chôgen built there, "logging operations for the reconstruction of Tôdaiji began on Bunji 2 (1186)/4/18" (Kobayashi 1971:90). The project soon ran into trouble, partly because it was difficult and expensive to transport logs from Suô all the way to Nara. Numerous dams—perhaps as many as one hundred—were built along the Saba river to facilitate the effort to float logs downstream. Expenses overran revenue, and it became necessary to donate Bizen and Harima province income to Todaiji in 1193, the year before the Daibutsuden was completed. Other difficulties came from local Suô warriors, and Yoritomo had to warn them on several occasions not to interfere with the shipping of timber. In the third month of 1187, Chôgen complained that jitô appointed by Kamakura had seized rice needed to feed laborers on the project and had physically obstructed the logging operation (Takeuchi 1971-1991, 1:129-130 [doc. 210]). In a communiqué apparently addressed to Go Shirakawa, Yoritomo declared his support for the reconstruction project and suggested that, rather than relying on a single province (Suô), Tôdaiji should tap till provinces and secure funding from the retired emperor, the court, and all landholders through a levy on every shôen (Takeuchi 1971-1991, 1:133-134 [doc. 219]). In other words, Yoritomo was recommending a nationwide tax. O n a smaller scale, in 1190 Yoritomo required his goke'nin (vassals) in the Kantô to donate rope (or the funds to buy it) to the Tôdaiji effort, an "indirect kanjin" method employing a political structure under Kamakura's control (Nagamura 1981:70). Why did Yoritomo support the reconstruction of Tôdaiji? In his missive to Go Shirakawa, he pointed out that the Taira, enemies of the court, had destroyed Tôdaiji and that it was necessary to reconstruct the temple quickly. Thus assistance had to be provided without fail. Yoritomo charged Go Shirakawa with responsibility for the restoration of the temple, "built by Shômu's comm a n d . " If these were words that Go Shirakawa wanted to hear, they were no doubt also words that Yoritomo wanted to say: he had linked the destruction of the Taira, the rebuilding of Tôdaiji, and the restoration of the glory of the throne to that of Shômu's time and had promoted himself as the true agent of all three tasks. Yoritomo's political agenda differed from that of Go Shira-

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kawa. The retired emperor wanted to integrate the nation with the throne at its center; Yoritomo was more concerned with establishing control over the other bushi. Though Yoritomo's aim was the more limited one, it did require efforts to legitimize his authority such as restoring and supporting religious institutions. Todaiji was not Yoritomo's sole religious project. As Jeffrey P. Mass points out, when Yoritomo was consolidating his power in eastern J a p a n in 1180, he took upon himself the role of protector of temples and shrines, seizing public land and granting it to Mishima shrine in Izu; this was "in marked contrast to the Taira, who were consistently seeking to outdo their central religious rivals in the competition for land profits" (1974a: 137). In 1187, moreover, Yoritomo ordered notables and officials of Shinano province to cooperate with kanjin efforts at Zenkoji (Takeuchi 1971-1991, 1:146-147 [docs. 248, 249]). The command was sent to all sata'nin (a term that probably refers, in this case, to Yoritomo's warrior vassals) on shoen and public land; they were threatened with confiscation of their holdings if they failed to cooperate. Another of Yoritomo's orders, this time in 1191, authorized a kanjin campaign by Toji (Takeuchi 1971-1991, 2:454 [doc. 567]). Like Todaiji, Zenkoji and Toji were venerable and powerful temples, and Yoritomo must have thought that supporting them would lend legitimacy to his power over others in the warrior class as well as to his claim to be the protector of aristocratic interests. Perhaps because Yoritomo's aims were different from Go Shirakawa's, he does not seem to have been so anxious to rebuild Todaiji through a voluntary kanjin campaign. In the edict that Go Shirakawa authored in 1181, he was careful to suggest that Todaiji be restored by such a campaign—an attempt, as I have argued, to appear to have won the willing cooperation of his subjects. Yoritomo, however, headed a military structure that was under no constraint to avoid the appearance of force. In fact, it probably heightened his authority when other military men meekly did what they were told. Thus it was not crucial for him to sponsor a voluntary kanjin campaign, and coercion could be applied to obtain the cooperation of military subordinates in temple-building projects. Unlike Go Shirakawa, Yoritomo did not try to disguise his use of force. Thus the image of a nationwide voluntary kanjin campaign that was so important for Go Shirakawa's purposes was not necessary for those of Yoritomo.

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It is important to remember that Todaiji's reconstruction was not solely the doing of Chogen, G o Shirakawa, and Yoritomo. Rather, it was accomplished through the cooperation of all important elements in J a p a n e s e society: the court, the military, the Buddhist clergy both regular and marginal, and, above all, the people themselves. T h e kanjin campaign had become a vehicle to forge a symbiosis between temple and community, in this case the entire nation; if both throne and bakufu profited from that symbiosis, so did the cause to which Chogen was devoted, the dissemination of Buddhist teachings. Even though the material contribution of the kanjin campaign to Todaiji's reconstruction may have been a small one, without it the undertaking would have been just another elite project. Popular participation helped to restore not only Todaiji's images and buildings, but its claim to be the religious center of the entire nation.

Chogen and Construction of the Bessho Perhaps in accord with his new patron's approach, Chogen spent less time collecting donations than he had before and more planning the construction project and managing the materials and revenue to support it. M u c h of his effort was devoted to establishing seven provincial temples, or bessho, that helped to support the Todaiji project. 1 3 As the n a m e bessho indicates, the temples were "separate places" that served the main temple. T h e seven bessho included five in Inland Sea provinces, from Suo in the west to Settsu in the east; one in Iga, where Todaiji had extensive holdings; and one on the precincts of Todaiji itself (see Table 2 for a list of the bessho). Chogen's seven bessho served practical needs of the kanjin campaign and the Todaiji reconstruction project. T h e earliest one, J o d o d o , was probably established on the precincts of Todaiji sometime between 1185 and 1187, in the early years of the effort to reconstruct the Daibutsuden. 1 4 Jododo, which included a bath and a dining hall as well as a central building with ten images of Amida, was probably Chogen's base of operations and lodging for the hijiri who helped Chogen in his work. T h e second bessho to be established, Amidaji in Suo, was probably built in 1186 or 1187, shortly after Todaiji had been authorized to exploit the province's revenues. From Amidaji, Chogen or his delegates could oversee

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